


Elementary 22: Retirement (1904-1936)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [22]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Attempted assassination, Bathtubs, Betrayal, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel - Freeform, Embarrassment, F/M, Gay Sex, Industrial espionage, Laundry, M/M, Minor Character Death, Old Age, Retirement, World War I, minor character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 12:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5004883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CLIP SHOW 1: Selected Vignettes From Our Retirement<br/>Case 118. THE CURIOUS CASE OF DEAN WINCHESTER (The Case Of The Bogus Laundry)<br/><b>Case 119. ROAD TRIP (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Lion's Mane')</b><br/>CLIP SHOW 2: Selected Vignettes From Our Retirement<br/><b>Case 120. FAN FICTION (formerly 'His Last Bow')</b><br/>CLIP SHOW 3: Selected Vignettes From Our Retirement</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

I would not have been Dean Winchester had I not feared the worst back in 1904, thinking that it would be hard if not impossible for Cas to resist calls for his help even from our heavenly hideaway on the Downs. I was never so grateful to have my cynicism proven wrong for once, and in that gratitude, I include the mortifyingly embarrassing bogus laundry affair, in which I made a complete fool of myself. Not much change there, then.

We were, it has to be admitted, getting on in years, but it was still wonderful to wake up in the morning and find that Cas had clambered on top of me, and was looking straight into my eyes with an intent that told me quite clearly what was to come – me. He could still be energetic and even rough at times, but I came to love even more those sessions of slow love-making in which one of us would worship the other's body, until we both lay there spent and satisfied, with no great reason to get out of bed except for food and bathroom breaks. Some days we never did, luxuriating in each other's company in the knowledge the the world could get by without us. We had served our time, Cas most definitely so, and we deserved our moments of happiness together.

Good things did happen, after all.


	2. Clip Show: Part 1 (1904-1906)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some vignettes from the early years of our glorious (and sex-filled) retirement together.

1904

After our glorious christening of every room in the cottage (even the little summer-house out the back), I settled in happily to our new life in what was, I supposed, our first real house together. We had it is true rented Baker Street, but we had spent so long there that I had come to consider it as home. Now, however, we had somewhere even better, somewhere that was truly ours. I was in a heavenly place with the heavenly man I loved more than life itself. 

Typically with my luck, we had a scare almost within a month of our arrival at the cottage. In October, a Russian fleet of ships, presumably overdosed on vodka, managed to mistake a fleet of British trawlers for the Japanese Navy, which considering how many thousands of miles the North Sea is from the western reaches of the Pacific Ocean, was some feat of stupidity (although in fairness, the Russian fleet was on its way to the East to assist in a war against Japan, then Great Britain's ally). The Russians duly fired on them (and, incredibly, each other!), sinking one fishing-boat. The Royal Navy was scrambled to pursue, and the Russians hastily agreed to set the matter before an independent international tribunal. Cas received several frantic telegrams from his brother Balthazar over the matter, but fortunately it was eventually resolved, and even better, Cas did not have to leave the cottage. Or me.

There is a lot of nonsense written about Victorians today, and even though we were now technically Edwardians, the country had not changed much. Looking back from beyond the Great War, many people today think we were far too prudish, always sour-faced and overly moral. It is true that society had a higher moral code in those days (and was all the better for it, in my humble opinion), but people were a lot more tolerant that some modern writers claim. I have no doubt that the villagers amongst whom we now lived very quickly came to understand exactly what sort of relationship we had, yet just as with our time in London, there were no cross words or raised eyebrows. As the old saying goes, provided it was with consenting adults and didn't frighten the horses (and equally importantly, was Not Talked About), people really didn't mind what (or who) other people did.  
   
Our first Christmas in the cottage was memorable, as I possibly went a little overboard in my decorating our first house (all right, I went mad!). Although I was sure that neither Mrs. Singer nor Mrs. Lindberg would have cared just how many decorations we had put up in our rooms, there had always been a slight restraint knowing that, at the end of the day, 221B was someone else's house, no matter how much it felt like home. Now I was free to decorate everything and anything, and I duly did. The vicar, round for a visit one day, remarked that it looked like Christmas had exploded inside the place, but Cas loved it, and I shall always cherish the memory of him once again wearing the Santa hat with the little bell on it. And not on his head.

Fun to ride, and yes, it was jingle all the way!

1905

During our first full year in the cottage, I completed writing up all our remaining cases, and supplied them in a steady stream to both the Strand magazine and my publishers. Neither of them knew the address of the cottage of course; all our correspondence went through Mrs. Lindberg in Baker Street, and it was from her that I received a continuing stream of what Cas laughingly called 'fan mail'. I bore in mind that 'fan' was an abbreviation of fanatic, as some of the people who wrote to me.... well, even after all the different varieties of sex I had experienced with Cas, I was still shocked! Though perhaps I was grateful for some of the suggestions, even the ones that turned out to be physically impossible (it was fun making sure!). And an especial note of thanks must go at this point to the mysterious C.W, writing all the way from the United States, whose set of works 'The Magnificently Elastic Adventures of Dante and Casanova' were more than instructive. It took us weeks to work through them all, and Bob, our postman, chuckled darkly at the sudden rise in parcel deliveries to the cottage, and at my more than usually dishevelled state around those times. Bastard!

This was also the year that the suffragette movement began to make its presence felt, and as I had predicted (a certain blue-eyed genius is muttering something about wiseacres as I write this!), the public reaction was hostile. Votes for women would come, just as the last century had brought three great acts that had led to most men finally getting a vote, but this sort of direct action served only to antagonize people, and press reaction was particularly fierce. The suffragette movement did however claim one early casualty; Mr. Raphael Novak, who followed up a barnstorming speech at an anti-suffragette rally with a huge meal, and promptly dropped dead of a heart-attack! 

Perhaps I was wrong to say the suffragettes were all bad.....

+~+~+

1906

Two years into my and Cas' time at the cottage, and mercifully the public seemed to have accepted his retirement, announced at the end of 'Heart' which was published that May. One magazine lamented the loss of 'that great Hercules', which bearing in mind that particular legendary character's chequered career, I found rather odd. True, Cas had rid the world of pests like the Greek hero had done, but without the acts of brutality and slaying of his own family (though having said that, with Cas' family..... ahem!). True, my man did not look like the archetypal Hercules, but then that appearance had been the undoing of more than one criminal who had underestimated him. Besides, as I well knew, he was more than Herculean in, uh, some areas.

Oh come on! Don't make me do all the work here!

It was Cas' fifty-second birthday that year, and a few days before it we travelled down to see the Singers in Eastbourne. It was only a short train-ride, but for some reason the experience brought back memories of my encounter with Mr. Alistair Campbell some eight years before; off, because I had of course undertaken several rail journeys in the years since. Possibly it was because it was the same type of train, a small two-coach branch-line affair, and that made the memory stronger. Cas, of course, was a pillar of strength, and held me close all the way there and back. I was so blessed to have him.

It was just a week after that a chain of events began that would again involve trains, and which would end in my being mortally embarrassed......


	3. Case 118: The Curious Case of Dean Winchester (1906)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the bogus laundry affair'.

I

It was the last day of September, barely two weeks after our return from Eastbourne, that Cas received an invitation to the wedding of an acquaintance that he had acquired from one of his cases (not one of the published ones, I should add). Unfortunately his friend not only now lived on one of the Scottish Hebridean Islands, but they were apparently unaware that Cas and I were now together, as the invitation was for one person. Cas offered to write back and ask for my inclusion, but I noted that the wedding, at the end of October, was to be a very small affair, and I knew from listening to my patients (I often treated people in the village, as there was no doctor there) as to how jealousies could be roused if Person A’s mate was invited when Person B’s was not. Though it would be a sacrifice, I would have to bite the bullet and let Cas go alone.  
   
Cas left on a Thursday afternoon, the twenty-fifth, to go to London for the night sleeper to Glasgow; I remember that the weather was grey and gloomy, not unlike my mood. The wedding itself was on Saturday morning, so he would not be back until the middle of Sunday at the earliest, more likely Monday. It was barely half a week, and I was glad he was going as he had all but saved the groom’s life, but I had underestimated how lonely I would feel. In between some manly tears, I ended up repeating what I had done during our brief separation some three years back, taking one of Cas’ dirty shirts out of the laundry-basket and sleeping with it, so at least I had his scent with me until he returned. I little knew how that act would come back to bite me with a vengeance.

I was also, probably quite stupidly, worried about Cas being on a train. I knew that he would not go through Grantham (scene of a recent and inexplicable rail crash), his route being out of Euston rather than King's Cross, but I could not shake the fear that something would happen whilst we were apart. I scanned the papers anxiously the next day for any news of such a calamity, and I loved Cas even more for sending me a telegram from Oban on Friday to say that he was tired and footsore (and sans coffee, God help those around him!), but that he had made the ferry to the Isle of Coll. He kept me updated regularly thereafter, though the news was mixed; the time of the wedding and reception meant that Cas could not make the afternoon ferry back to Oban, but there was (surprisingly) a Sunday morning ferry which would connect with a train onto the night sleeper to London, arriving early Monday morning. Further telegrams on his way back from Glasgow and London only heightened my expectations, and the welcome-home sex was amazing for two men in their fifties! 

+~+~+  
   
December arrived, and I was busy decorating the cottage (and avoiding my lover's smirk at my wincing every time I stretched!) when we had an unexpected visitor. To my surprise it was Lucifer Novak.  
   
“Granny Rose is failing”, he told Cas.  
   
His brother looked sad, but clearly he did not see what was expected of him. Lucifer sighed.  
   
“Father wants to gather the family one last time for her”, he said. “No husbands or wives, just blood.”  
   
Cas looked at him sharply.  
   
“Luke”, he said warningly, “if I go, and then find that what you have just said is untrue, you know I will come straight back without seeing her. I mean it!”  
   
(That was no idle threat. Michael Novak had invited Cas to a family affair some five years back in which I was not included, and Cas had arrived at the family home to find everyone else’s spouse or partner was in attendance. He had turned round and come straight home, despite his family’s efforts to get him to change his mind, and had insisted on Sir Charles making a full apology to me in person. I knew also that he had not spoken to his eldest brother for some months afterwards, although as I have said previously, there was little love lost between them. Michael Novak in particular only kept his disapproval hidden because, as Cas explained, “Mother would box his ears if he said anything in her presence!”).

“You can trust me, Cas”, his brother said coaxingly. “I am having to leave Alfie and the family as well, and I know how difficult it is.”

“How long for?” Cas asked, still looking suspicious.  
   
“Not more than a few days”, his brother said firmly. “The old battle-axe wants a visit, not for us to stand around waiting for her to peg out!”  
   
I smiled at that. ‘Granny Rose’ was Lady Novak's mother; her real name was Elaine, but as that was by one of those odd coincidences also the name of Sir Charles' mother, the former was known by her middle name. I had never met her, for which I was somewhat thankful as Cas had described as 'even worse than my mother', but I knew that she had a habit of lashing out with her walking-stick at anything or anyone that displeased her. Cas turned to me.  
   
“I promise I will only be gone for a week at most”, he said firmly. “You will be all right?”  
   
“Of course”, I said with a smile. “I survived your Scottish trip. You should go and pack. I’ll be fine.”  
   
He smiled back at me, and went upstairs. His brother was looking sharply at me, and I had the uneasy feeling that he could see through me far too easily.  
   
Lucifer Novak drove Cas to the station, from which they would take two trains to get to London (unlike me, Cas did not mind going via Tonbridge, where I had nearly lost him not so long ago). I waved my friend goodbye, then went slowly back into the house. Only then did I break down in tears. God, I was a wreck! Cas would be ashamed of me if he knew, but a long lonely time without the light of my life stretched ahead of me, and I did not know how on earth I was going to get through it.

+~+~+

I got through it thanks mainly to at least twice-daily telegrams which mostly complained about everyone and everything that Cas was having to put up with, though when Lucifer Novak’s finally carriage dropped him off at the door and the former declined to come inside, I silently blessed the man. I was in the main room when my man burst through the door, and within seconds I had a blue-eyed genius all over me, panting as if he had run a race.  
   
“That was so horrible!” he declared. “I do not care what friend or family member calls next time, I am not going without you! That is a promise”

I could tell from his scent how distressed he was, as doubtless he could tell from mine how miserable I was feeling. We quite literally clawed each other's clothes off in our eagerness, and how we got to the bedroom without sustaining a major injury, I do not know. Of course Cas was undressed first, and when I had finally managed to get myself out of a pair of trousers which seemed to have been glued to me, I looked up to see him naked on the bed, his legs drawn back and ready for me. I was fifty-four years old, and I briefly wondered if I would live to see fifty-five when I saw that. Then he moaned in anticipation, and my higher brain functions promptly ceased.

Somehow I managed to retain enough sense to quickly open him up, my cock already leaking in anticipation at being inside him where it belonged. I tried to ease in gently, but even at fifty-two he was as flexible as ever, and he scooted down the bed, impaling himself on me and letting out a satisfied groan as I yelped in surprise. We usually took our time when coupling, but this was raw sex, and I was blinded with lust, racing towards my climax and coming far sooner than I would have wished. I came violently, yelping in agonized relief before falling onto my hands, trying not to crush him.

“Dean?” he grunted.

My vision returned, and I briefly wondered why he had not come as well. Then I realized that the sneaky little bastard was actually wearing the cock-ring I had bought for him, which he had had engraved that last time he had had to visit London. Though still recovering, I could see what he had in mind, and rolled onto my back next to him. He quickly fingered me open, and then entered me with the ring still on, groaning as he achieved his own relief. Like a dog to a bone, he found my prostate at once and began to pummel it mercilessly with his cock, causing my eyes to roll back in my head. I let out a guttural snarl, and he must have removed the ring because suddenly he was coming inside of me, hissing his joy as he painted my insides white. Incredibly for a man in his mid-fifties I promptly came a second time, my balls almost aching as they were drained, but any pain was banished by the dead weight of a six-foot blue-eyed genius falling inelegantly on top of me and lying there, our two hearts beating as one.

Maybe I had missed him just a little bit.....

II

If I had thought the welcome-home sex after our first separation had been good, what followed in the next week was astounding. It was as if Cas had been denied sex for an entire decade, not just seven days, and was determined to make up for lost time. Usually at times like this he preferred to take the lead, but this time he seemed determine to even things out, happy both when pounding me into the mattress or riding me into a semi-comatose state. I suppose we must have eaten and whatnot, but all I can remember for that week was Cas wanting (and of course getting) sex every time he was awake. By the end of it I wondered if we might have to order a wheelchair, as I could barely walk!

I made the mistake of mentioning this to Cas, and realized a moment too late that he might take it as an invitation to stop. Oh boy, had I underestimated him! He proceeded to walk me all around the cottage, holding me impaled on his cock! I broke yet another cock-ring; they really do not make things like they used to.

It was only as I lay there on the seventh day that something occurred to me. I turned carefully to the scruffy alpha next to me, and ran a finger through his thick stubble (shaving had been a low priority as of late).

“Mrs. Whitlow has not called”, I said, missing him tenderly on the hair, He nestled closer to me and nibbled at my neck. 

“I dropped my washing in at her cottage when we passed on the way here”, he whispered back. “I also told her that we would not need her for at least a week, and would let her know when to bring it back. Of course I paid her anyway.”

I frowned.

“You planned this!” I said accusingly.

“Yes”, he said unashamedly, slowly grinding his crotch against mine. “And now I think I'm ready for Round Thirty-One.”

I sighed, and decided to lie back and think of England whilst he had his way with me. There were worse fates.

Few better, though!

+~+~+

In our many cases together, it was often the small things that tripped a criminal up and allowed Cas to nail them. So it was with me in this instance, and I only realized my mistake the following Thursday when Mrs. Whitlow returned with all Cas' washing. The excellent woman did not even raise an eyebrow at the extra load of both our clothes and bedding that she took away in its place.

Well, all right, maybe one eyebrow. And her knowing look was uncomfortable, if well-merited. I think she just about suppressed what sounded like the start of a snigger. Just!  
   
Cas was putting his washed clothes away when I came back from my walk later that day, and I sat down to read the paper at leisure. After a while however, I became aware that he was searching for something. I put the paper down.  
   
“Have you lost something?” I asked.  
   
“My green sweater, with the frogs on”, he said, looking adorably frustrated. “I do not recall taking it to London with me, and I thought it was in the pile to be washed that I left behind. But I checked earlier, and it was not there.”  
   
Mercifully he was searching the small cupboard in which we kept the dirty washing basket, so he did not see my face turning bright red. I had made it through the week partly by taking that sweater and sleeping with it, the lingering scent of Cas keeping me going when I could not have the man himself. In my excitement at his return, I had forgotten to add it to the rest of the dirty laundry. It was still folded away neatly under our bed, and reeking of my own scent as well as his.  
   
“You are sure you did not miss it, or perhaps took it with you?” I asked. “Perhaps it was unpacked in London and left there?”  
   
“I shall have to send a telegram to Father, and get him to check my room”, he said. “That sweater is ideal for this weather, and I do not want to be without it.”  
   
He went upstairs to search there, and I let out a breath. This was seriously embarrassing. Though I loved being scented by my mate, alphas did not get reduced to holding their mates dirty clothes at night to stop them from crying. I would have to take the damned sweater to be washed somewhere else, and get it back without his noticing.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Of course, I was Dean Winchester, which meant that I could not catch a break. Even though the red-hot passion of his return had faded to our usual gentle simmer – we were in our fifties, damn it! - Cas spent virtually all his time when he was not looking for that damned sweater close by me, and was visibly uneasy when we were apart. I even had to be in the garden when he tended to his bees, as he said that he felt uneasy with me out of sight. I of course felt the same, but it made it damnably near impossible to get the sweater out of the house. It did not help when his parents disobligingly wired back far too quickly, guaranteeing that the dratted thing was not in his room in London.  
   
I finally got lucky just over a week later, when Cas contracted a severe cold and had to rest on the couch all day. Although I had the correct medicines with which to treat it, I lied and said I needed something from the chemist’s in the village, as well as needing to order some of my favourite cologne, of which I was running short (I was sure that I had bought more than the two bottles I had left, but then I was never very good at keeping track of things like that, as my mind was usually on more important matters). He was obviously cross at not being able to go with me, but I insisted he stay out of the driving rain. I was forced to give him a very thorough blow-job before he would let me go, but then as a doctor I had obligations to my patient which I felt obliged to fulfill. And Cas did fully fill.... ahem!  
   
It was a Monday when I finally got down to the village, which I knew was when the other lady who took in washing, Mrs. Smith, did her laundry. I dropped the sweater off with her and explained that it was one of Cas’ favourites, and could she get it cleaned as soon as possible? I am sure that she wondered why I had not given it to Mrs. Whitlow (the reason was because that woman could gossip for England, and I was afraid she might let something slip whilst cleaning our house), but Mrs. Smith smiled and took it. It seemed that I was going to get away with it.

As usual, I really should have known better.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Typically, the weather decided to frustrate my plans, the squally winter rains continuing all day. That meant that it would take a long time for the sweater to dry properly. I spent some time in the village tavern, but when I returned to Mrs. Smith, she told me it would not be dry until that evening, and she would air it for me overnight. So I had to return without it.  
   
The following day, I had to go in and pick the sweater up – and of course, bloody Lazarus had all but recovered, and wanted to go with me. God bless Mrs. Smith when she met us in the High Street that she said nothing about it, although Heaven only knows what she thought my motives were! Cas remained glued to my side, and I reached home feeling slightly depressed that I had been unable to retrieve the thing. That was, until we came back to the house and found something neatly folded on the table. Cas’ sweater.  
   
I stared at it incredulously, whilst he read the note that had been left beside it.  
   
“It is from Mrs. Whitlow”, he said. “Apparently it got separated from the other items in the wash, and she only found it yesterday, so she washed it separately and brought it with her today.” His eyes narrowed. “Odd. I do not remember her carrying anything when she arrived earlier.”  
   
“I did not see her”, I said, trying not to show my relief. The two washerwomen had clearly conspired to get my friend’s sweater back and spare me whatever embarrassment they thought I was facing, and whilst I could probably never look either of them fully in the eye again, at least I was in the clear with Cas. He examined the item of clothing as if it were a clue to some terrible murder, but then just smiled and took it away upstairs. I waited until he was gone before heaving a huge sigh of relief.  
   
All together now. I really, really should have known better.  
   
III

Cas was feeling particularly amorous that night, and cleared of the cloud that had hung over me in recent days, I was more than happy to oblige. The blue ties came out, and he bound my wrists and ankles to the four corners of the bed. I writhed ineffectually, my erection only increasing when he pulled out the black feather and began to run it down my chest.  
   
“Tell me about the sweater.”  
   
I turned a colour that was probably redder than his best shirt. I was in no position to lie to him – I was in no position to do anything, if truth be told! – and he clearly knew or at least suspected something was afoot.  
   
“Keep your mind on the subject, Dean”, he growled, applying the cock-ring before rubbing the feather gently up and down my cock. “The sweater?”  
   
“What about it?” I managed.  
   
“Why did you get Mrs. Smith to wash it?” he asked.  
   
I was now going from red to white. Put some oil in me, and I could have acted as a flashlight!  
   
“What do you mean?” I hedged.  
   
He sighed.  
   
“Mrs. Whitlow always uses her own concoction of chemicals to wash our clothes”, he said. “Mrs. Smith, the only other lady who takes in washing in the village, uses a generic detergent. You know I have a good sense of smell, so I know that Mrs. Whitlow did not wash that shirt, just as I know she did not bring it to the house today. Plus the note was written by a left-handed person, yet Mrs. Whitlow, from whom it purported to come, is right-handed. What is going on?”  
   
I blushed even more deeply.  
   
“I had it”, I admitted.  
   
He stopped his ministrations and stared at me.  
   
“Why?” he asked.  
   
“Last summer, when you went to Scotland”, I said. “I kept going by sleeping with one of your shirts out of the laundry-basket. You were away a whole week this time, so I took that woollen monstrosity, knowing that you sweat when wearing it. It… kept me going. You know.”  
   
This was so embarrassing. I did not think anything could make it worse, before Cas suddenly got out of bed and went across to his dressing-table, returning with a large glass perfume bottle. He sprayed a little on his hand and offered it to me.  
   
“What does that smell of?” he asked.  
   
I was confused, but dutifully sniffed it.  
   
“A bit like my cologne”, I said. “Have you been borrowing it?”  
   
“No. Stealing it.”  
   
I looked at him, now completely confused.  
   
“What?”  
   
“Like you, I found surviving without the man I love very painful”, he said. “I barely slept at all during the Scottish trip, without you there. So I took a bottle of your cologne to London with me. I doused the sheets with it every night, just so I could get some sleep. It worked a little, but I still missed you terribly.”  
   
I stared at him in shock.  
   
“So you are as bad as me!” I protested.  
   
“Stealing clothes?” he grinned. “Conspiring with the villagers to keep your 'crime' covered up? Openly lying to me?”  
   
I pouted.  
   
“And I love it when you pout.”  
   
I turned my back on him. Well, I would have done had I not been tied down.  
   
“That was mean!” I said sulkily. “You knew, and you made me suffer!”  
   
The feather was suddenly replaced by his smooth hand, gently rubbing me off.  
   
“Then let me make it up to you”, he whispered.  
   
And he did. Oh boy, how he did!  
   
+~+~+  
   
Next, our penultimate adventure together, when it was not Cas who decided we should return to the fray, but me. All for family…..


	4. Case 119: Road Trip (1907)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Lion's Mane'.

I

It is said that into every man's life, a little rain must fall. But perhaps bearing in mind that I had twice been parted from the love of my life for prolonged periods of time, I felt that I had had more than my fair share of downpours, and that I deserved some happy years alone with my Cas.

My Cas! I still could not believe that we had managed it. At the end of 'Heart', my last story published, I had spun a story about Cas and I having to go to Switzerland to solve a major problem, and that at the end of it we had decided to stay there (such was the great man's fame that, had I revealed that we were living in England, I am sure that our 'fandom' (I still hated that word!) would have not rested until it had hunted us down! Still, I was rather surprised that my readers had accepted this; even in my tamer Victorian writings, I had expressed my dislike towards the area that had taken Cas from me that one time. Of course there were periodic articles in the newspaper speculating about why we were no longer around or where we had gone, but like all things, these faded with time. It was just us, the Downs and the bees. Life (apart from the occasional minor clothing-induced crisis) was good.

+~+~+

It was the summer after the sweater incident, when our tranquil life was disturbed by the arrival of a visitor. It was June and, a little coincidentally as it turned out, England had just seen its first motor-racing track opened at Brooklands in nearby Surrey. Our visitor was Cas' brother Gabriel, now sixty-four years of age but as irrepressible as ever. The year after our move, he had finally settled down after a trip to India from which he brought back a native lady called Kali, and according to Cas, they were very happy together. I asked what had brought him to Sussex.

“You, doctor”, he said. “Someone called at Baker Street for you, and naturally I needed to know if you wished to make contact with them.”

“Who?” I asked.

“A Mr. Lionel Delaware”, he said. The name meant nothing to me, and he continued. “He is a lawyer representing a man accused of industrial espionage at the place at which he works. The man's name is Mr. Benjamin Braeden.”

I tensed and looked across at Cas, who immediately got up and came over to stand next to me, placing his hand reassuringly on my shoulder.

“Is the gentleman's client known to you?” Gabriel asked. “Because I have to tell you, from what he said of the case, it does not look good.”

“Ben is the son of a former acquaintance of Dean's, now Mrs. Warburton”, Cas said calmly. “We happened across them in a case back in 'Eighty-Nine, when the lady's husband was wrongly suspected of trying to drive his father mad.”

Eighteen years, I mused. I had not seen Ben since that time, when he was only four years old, though I had remained in communication with his mother Lisa, and had sent money for birthdays and Christmas, which she had put in a bank account for his recent coming-of-age. The last photograph I had received was of him at that great event; there had been little of me in those looks (I did not know whether to be relieved or not at that), but he did have Sammy's glorious long hair, a complete lion's mane just like my grandfather. Indeed, physically he bore some resemblance to my eldest nephew, who was almost eighteen years old. I was privately thankful that the two would almost certainly never meet.

On reaching eighteen Ben had, with the help of a supporting letter of recommendation from myself, obtained a place at the Leicester School of Art studying, of all things, automobile technology. He had said in his letter of thanks that he hoped the day would come when everyone could afford one of these horseless carriages or automobiles, a thought which had frankly made me shudder. His last letter had been a couple of months ago, announcing that he had finished his course successfully and had obtained a job at a factory in Wellingborough, Northamptonshire, where they produced not only assorted metal products but also experimental vehicles. It had been the original intention that Lisa - Mrs. Warburton - would tell him of his links to me just after his twenty-first birthday, but unfortunately her husband had been involved in a major accident on the estate, and was still recovering a year later. She and I had agreed to avoid telling the boy - the young man - just yet.

“What are they claiming that he has done?” I asked brusquely. 

Gabriel Novak raised an eyebrow at my tone, but did not comment on it, thankfully.

“I don't have all the details of the case”, he said. “That's for the lawyers. But I think it comes down to the fact that a rival factory produced something identical to what they were working on, and they think he leaked it to them.”

“Why would he do that?” Cas asked.

“You'll have to meet with the lawyer to find that out”, Gabriel said. “Per our agreement, Mrs. Lindberg agreed to forward the lawyer's request for a meeting to your last known location. I'm guessing from the look on the doctor's face that you'll be wanting to see him?”

“Definitely!” Cas said. “Please inform him that we are currently on a brief return trip to Great Britain, and would welcome the chance to discuss the case with him at a time and place of his convenience.”

I placed my hand over his in thanks. He hadn't even hesitated. Gabriel Novak smiled at us both, but said nothing.

+~+~+

One of the best rooms in the little cottage (after the bedroom, of course) was the bathroom, which was positively luxurious for such a small building. Whilst we had been waiting for the transfer of the property, Cas had (obviously with the permission of the seller) taken the opportunity to knock through to an adjoining and little-used cupboard, making the bathroom large enough to incorporate a huge iron bath. And I do mean huge; the two of us could fit in it easily.

I was stressed after Gabriel Novak's visit, so much so that for once I did not notice that Cas was not by my side. When I came to that realization, there was a brief moment of panic before I heard the bath running. An odd time for a soak in the middle of the day, I thought, and stuck my head round the door to ask him why. 

He was standing there completely naked. As usual, I drooled.

“Come over here, Dean”, he said gently. 

I walked unhesitatingly towards him. The thought to ask why never crossed what remained of my mind, and even that began to dissolve when he slowly began to remove my clothes.

“This has been a shock to you”, he said quietly, pausing to turn off the taps. The room smelled of honeyed bath salts, and I took advantage of his pause to run my nose all over his chest and under his arms, taking in the glorious scent of my mate. Whatever this case threw at me and my son, in here I was safe. Cas smiled, and let me do what I wanted until I was ready, then finished undressing me and led me into the bath, seating himself behind me and easing me down to rest against him. I was surprised that he was not even hard, but then neither was I.

He slowly began to wash me down with the vanilla ivory soap he preferred, and I leaned into the scent of it. It brought back a brief memory of the time when that scent had been all I had left of Cas, those terrible years after Lawrence when I thought him dead, but that only served to remind me of his return and our happiness since, and I smiled lazily. He stood me up and lathered me all over, then held the soap out to me to do the same for him. Still neither of us were hard, and still I was not surprised. This, not sex, was what I needed right now. Trust Cas to know that.

We both slipped back beneath the swirling waters to sponge ourselves off, and once we were done Cas pulled me close. Despite its antique appearance the bath actually had a heating device fitted which kept the water warm for a considerable time, so we could continue to soak there in comfort. And it was cleverly designed so the taps were at the side, meaning we could also sit facing each other. Which was good, because Cas eased me round to face him, then set himself to wash my hair. I sighed happily as he did so, and once he was done did his as well.

Even with the heater, the water was now getting cold, and Cas got us out before drying us off with a huge towel. Normally rubbing my naked body against Cas' would have had only one effect and one eventual outcome, but this time we both remained quiet, content to have each other close. Once we were dry, Cas led me out and to the bedroom, where he slipped us both under the covers.

It is probably an un-alpha-like thing to admit to, but sometimes I had an almost omega-like need to be held by my mate. Naturally Cas knew this was one of those times, and he gently took hold of me as I snuggled up against his still-muscled body, sighing happily as I surrendered to sleep. The world and its troubles could wait a little longer. Dean had his Cas, and that was all that mattered.

II

The meeting with Mr. Lionel Delaware took place in his Wellingborough offices on the following Sunday. In the days leading up to it Cas proved that he was as sure-footed as ever in our relationship, never missing a chance to touch me for reassurance and always allowing me to be as close to him as I wanted. I do not know why, but the threat to my son made me that much needier than normal, not so much for sex as for simple contact. And thankfully I had Cas, so that need was more than fulfilled.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you have decided to help with this case, Mr. Novak”, the lawyer said, wiping his forehead. He was a short, almost round alpha with a notable birthmark on his chin, and rapidly receding blond hair. “Frankly I had my doubts when my client claimed an acquaintanceship with you – some accused have a tendency to say anything when under duress – but it was all true.”

“We are delighted to help”, Cas said. “Mrs. Warburton is an old friend of the doctor's, and any friend of his is by default a friend of mine. Now, please tell us about this case.”

The lawyer sighed and sat back in his plush armchair.

“It is very bad”, he said. “I do not like to say it, but I can see no way that Mr. Braeden cannot be guilty, despite what he says. However, I have read the doctor's books, and I know of your ability to produce miracles from time to time. One is certainly needed now!”

I could feel my spirits dropping.

“The event concerning my client occurred on the night between Saturday the fourteenth and Sunday the fifteenth”, the lawyer went on. “Without wishing to deviate into technicalities, which I find confusing, the men at the works were building an automobile powered not by steam, as is usual, but by the newly-invented diesel engine. I should explain that the technological side of the business is relatively small, and consists of precisely three developers, one of whom was Mr. Braeden.”

“I am surprised they have the time to do it”, I ventured.

“That ties in with the case”, the lawyer said. “The government periodically funds the development side, but like all governments they expect something in return. Now that the rival company in Derby has produced a vehicle that performs reasonably well, it is likely that there will be less money for Wellingborough.”

“Are we to assume that the Derby vehicle just happens to bear a striking resemblance to the plans drawn up in Wellingborough?” Cas asked.

The lawyer nodded.

“Mr. Braeden explained to me that they had just overcome one of the major obstacles in making the design feasible for mass production”, he said. “Only one, and they had several more to go, but it would make the test vehicle much more efficient. On Saturday evening, he and the other two men left their room and locked it, with the plans apparently inside. Outside, they each went their separate ways home. Mr. Braeden was then attacked by at least three men whilst walking along the riverside path, and left unconscious in a nearby storage hut. Only the fact that he was due to meet a lady friend off the train the following evening, and she had the wit to call the police when he did not appear, initiated the search that found him. He had also been drugged after the attack, and was still unconscious.”

“And the papers?” Cas asked.

“He is adamant that they remained locked in the office”, the lawyer said, “although of course that does not preclude copies having been made. Four days later the rival works in Derby produced a car with the very improvement that Mr. Braeden had been working on. And there is more. When the police searched him, they found not only a return railway ticket from Wellingborough to Derby for Sunday morning, used, but five hundred pounds in cash.”

“Why would the police do that?” I asked testily. “They were supposed to be finding his attackers!”

“I am rather afraid that they were driven by the works manager and Mr. Braeden's superior, a Mr. Ashdown”, the lawyer said, a look of distaste on his face. “One of those betas who thinks he has to act like an alpha to be respected; you know the sort. The actual works owner, a Mr. Samuel Primrose, has been helpfulness itself in what few inquiries I have been able to make, but Mr. Ashdown is convinced of his employee's guilt.”

“Or trying to mask his own”, Cas said. “Who is the investigating officer?”

The lawyer's face cleared somewhat.

“There, at least, we have been fortunate”, he said. “Sergeant Richards is a good man, and he was very firm with Mr. Ashdown when he tried to tell him how to pursue the investigation. I believe he will wait for facts rather than seek out only those that support a certain viewpoint. Mr. Braeden needs all the help he can get.”

“Then it is to the sergeant that we must address ourselves”, Cas said. “Mr. Delaware, may I ask you a somewhat impertinent question to finish? You do not, of course, have to answer.”

The lawyer looked surprised. “You may”, he said.

“Who is paying your fees in this case?”

“Mr. Braeden's father, of course”, he said. 

“Of course”, Cas said.

III

“It is very obviously a set-up”, Cas said as we drove to the police-station. “What sort of attackers mug a man, leave him unconscious but not dead, and somehow contrives to miss five hundred pounds of cash in his pockets? But the pressure is always on the police to find a solution, and less obvious things than that have been overlooked in the past. Do not worry, Dean. You saved him once, and we shall save him this time as well.”

I wished that I could share his confidence. 

I felt a little better after we met Sergeant Preston Richards, who seemed the sort of policemen we needed on this case. A young alpha (all policemen looked young nowadays, I thought morosely), he was fully prepared to let Cas and I look at the evidence, though he did admit that things looked black for Ben.

“The money was drawn out of a recently-opened bank-account at Lloyd's Bank in Derby on Thursday”, he said. “A false name, of course. I have more hopes of the railway ticket, however, No-one at the station remembers seeing Mr. Braeden, and he often went there to see his lady-friend off on the train. She lives in Irchester, the next stop south of here towards London.”

“Do you have the ticket?” Cas asked.

The sergeant produced an envelope, and tipped out a second-class Midland Railway return ticket.

“As you can see, it's been clipped twice”, he said, pointing to where the train conductors had marked the ticket at its lower end.

Cas smiled, and I felt my spirits rising again. He knew something!

“As I understand it”, he said, “the contention of Mr. Ashdown is that Mr. Braeden faked the attack, then took a train to Derby to hand over the plans?”

“Correct, sir”, the sergeant said. “Because of the late hour he left work that Saturday, that would have had to have been a Sunday morning train, as although he could have reached Derby that night, there is no train back. Expresses don't stop at somewhere as small as our little town.”

Cas made some notes about the ticket markings in a notebook.

“With luck, we may be able to prove Mr. Braeden's innocence from that ticket alone”, he said. “That being the case, we have four other people in the case. Mr. Ashdown, his two fellow employees and his lady-friend who alerted the police when he failed to show for their date on Sunday.”

The sergeant nodded, and opened a case file.

“Ladies first”, he said. “Miss Patricia Stewart, aged twenty-one. Lives with her mother and two sisters at a house in Irchester, close to the railway station. Has been dating Mr. Braeden since he came here in July. He was due to meet her off the 3:55 train on Sunday the fifteenth, and of course didn't show. She waited a little while, then walked to his house and found it empty. A neighbour told her that Mr. Braeden hadn't been home the day before – I love nosy neighbours! - and she started worrying. She came to the station, and we initiated the search that found him about an hour later.”

“What was she doing when he was attacked?” Cas asked. The sergeant raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Surely you don't suspect her?” he asked.

“I suspect everybody”, Cas said. “Did you ask?”

“Of course”, the sergeant said. “She last saw Mr. Braeden on Thursday, when she met him at the works. He was, apparently, very excited over his new discovery, though of course she hasn't the first clue about mechanics, so it all went over her head. Saturday evening she was home all night with her parents and sisters. On Sunday morning she took the first train up to see her dotty grandmother who lives in Kettering, north of here, and had Sunday dinner with her, returning to meet – or not – Mr. Braeden at the station.”

An alibi for the time of the attack, I noted, though whoever did that must have used hired thugs, so that meant little or northing. 

“Quite a contrast, are Mr. Braeden's work colleagues”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Walter Turley, fifty-one, an omega unusually, been with the company over thirty years, totally respectable in every way. However, his alibi for the time of the attack is very poor. He went to the local pub, and his husband Stephen did not remember him returning home that night. Of course one or two people in the pub claimed to have seen him, but their reliability as witnesses.... well! Sunday morning he went to church with his husband. I checked that, and it was confirmed.”

“I see”, Cas said.

“I would favour the other one, Mr. Oswald Brown”, the sergeant continued. “Twenty-four, an alpha buck and – here's the good part – a one-time candidate for Miss Stewart's affections, before Mr. Braeden's recent arrival. Mr. Brown is physically rather plain, but thinks a great deal of himself, I should say. Even Mr. Ashdown admitted that there was no love lost between the two young men. But typically, he has a pretty much watertight alibi for the time of the attack. He was helping out with a theatre group he works with in town. He might have been able to slip away for a few minutes perhaps, but nothing more. Sunday morning he also went to church, and the vicar remembers him talking to him as he left. There is no way he can have left town and got back again.”

“And Mr. Ashdown himself?” Cas asked.

“Mr. St. Cloud Invincible Tripolitania Ashdown, so he clearly had cruel parents!” the sergeant grinned. “Forty-eight, beta as I said, been with the company since forever, and rumour is that they were thinking of moving or forcibly retiring him. He clearly dislikes Mr. Braeden, but now that the rival plant has produced a decent automobile, he may get the sack or they may even close down the technological department here. So not that much of a motive, though I suppose if Braeden goes then he would be more likely to be kept on, at least in the short term. Claims he was at home all Saturday evening and Sunday morning, and his wife backs that up, but she is clearly terrified of him, so that means little.”

Cas nodded.

“I think, sergeant”, he said, “it would be in your interests to concentrate on the money. Quite clearly five hundred pounds was paid into a bank account and then withdrawn, so as to create a link with Derby. Now, most people do not have that sort of money lying around, so someone must have got it somehow. The most likely way is a short-term loan; perhaps your colleagues in Derby can go round the local banks and loan sharks to see if anyone has borrowed that sum or something slightly in excess of it recently.”

The sergeant nodded, and moved to close the file. I saw that it actually had a photo of Ben attached to it, and he caught me looking.

“Latest technology”, he said. “We snap anyone we arrest and add their picture to the record. Don't think much of it myself, seeing as how people can change their looks so easily, but the higher-ups love it, so we do it.”

I nodded. Ben must have cut his lion's mane recently, I noticed, and looked as miserable as I felt. Cas also looked at the photo, and then at the sergeant.

“Whilst we are gone”, he said, writing something on his notepad, “you could do me one extra favour if you would.”

“Of course”, the sergeant said. “What is it?”

“Ask Mr. Braeden that question”, Cas said, tearing a sheet out of his notepad and passing it over. “We are for the local railway station. Let us hope that Lady Luck is with is!”

IV

As it was lunch-time and my stomach chose the steps of the police-station to rather un-subtly inform me (and Cas, and a startled passer-by!) of that fact, we decided to adjourn to a local restaurant before going to the station. The establishment we chose was pleasant enough, although there were three somewhat un-savoury looking young men in the corner who were eyeing us up for some reason. I was glad to leave the place, especially as they did not serve pie, the heathens!

At the station, Cas sought out the station-master and asked him about conductors, of all things.

“What I wish to know”, he said, “is if you can tell me who the conductor on a certain train was, and what was his route that day?”

The station-master scratched his bald head.

“Well, I could tell you who it was, sir”, he said. “The conductors, they work the same route week after week, so if you know the train, I can say who was on it easily enough. But you'd then have to go and ask them if they stuck to their schedule; sometimes they change with illnesses and the like. Though if you're well enough to breathe, you're well enough to work, in my opinion!”

I smiled at his vehemence.

“The train I am concerned with would have been the first train from here to Derby on a Sunday morning”, Cas said.

“That'd be Ethelbert, Mr. Cowper, sir”, the station-master said unhesitatingly. “He's local, and works all the semi-fast trains from London to Leicester. Goes up and down the line several times a day, and always catches the last train to his home in Leicester.”

“I understand that when the railway company clips their passengers' tickets, they do so with a code”, Cas said. “I have a ticket with '17A' on it. Can you tell me what those numbers mean, please?”

“Seventeen is the semi-fast route from London as far as Leicester, sir”, the station-master said. “Each conductor has his own clippers, with a different letter on them. There's hell to pay if they lose them!”

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Cowper is now?” Cas asked.

The station-master shook his head.

“But I can tell you he'll be through on the last train tonight, the 8:15”, he said. “If you wanted to catch him, you could buy a ticket to Finedon and talk with him on the train. Unless it's a long conversation you'd be wanting, in which case buy through to Kettering.”

“I have but two questions for him”, Cas said with a smile. “Thank you, sir. You have been extremely helpful.”

A coin changed hands, and we left.

+~+~+

Outside the station, I was concerned to see that the three ruffians had followed us from the restaurant. I wished I had brought my revolver, now in my bag at the local hotel where we had booked in for the night. To my surprise, Cas left my side and walked over to them. There was some muted conversation, then he returned. The three hurried away.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Those were the three men who attacked your son”, Cas said.

“We should have them arrested!” I said at once. To my surprise he shook his head.

“They were hired hands”, he said. “We want the person who paid them; the organ-grinder rather than the monkeys. And if Mr. Cowper confirms what the station-master told us about him tonight, then we will be one step closer to securing them!”

+~+~+

There was no sign of the ruffians when we returned to the station that evening, but I was glad that we dropped in on the police-station on the way there, and even gladder when Sergeant Richards said he would accompany us. At the station we met the station-master, who told us that he had wired ahead for us and that Mr. Cowper would alight from the train to talk with us, provided the conversation was kept brief. In fact Cas spoke with him for barely thirty seconds, then thanked him and paid him for his time.

“I asked Mr. Braeden your question, sir”, the sergeant said. “He said the Friday before the attack. Apparently Miss Stewart did not like his long hair, so he thought he would surprise her with cutting it off. Like Samson.”

“Let us hope the consequences are less grave!” Cas smiled. “Did you have any luck with the money?” 

“A Mr. Tudor borrowed five hundred pounds from the North Midland Bank in Derby”, he said. “A false name, of course. The manager who made the loan said that he was a slight man, quite young but of good character. At least until his references proved false, of course.”

“Three of your local youths beat up Mr, Braeden”, Cas said. “They used a similar description of the man who employed them, except they said he smelled really badly of cologne. Which is what I expected.”

“Why?” the sergeant asked.

“Let us get back to the warmth of the station, and I will tell you”, Cas smiled.

+~+~+

“This crime”, Cas began, “started shortly after the arrival of Mr. Benjamin Braeden to Wellingborough, and his employment at the technical department of Wayland Industries. It rapidly became clear to his co-workers that he was a man of exceptional talent, and in a situation where the department might be reduced at short notice, that provoked some alarm. In one person who felt that they in particular had a lot to lose.”

“Who?” I asked.

V

“Miss Patricia Stewart”, he said calmly.

We both stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Consider”, he said. “She is dating Mr. Oswald Brown at the time. Mr. Brown is unexceptional, and might easily be the first to go if the department is reduced in size. So the two of them hatch a plan. First, Miss Stewart dumps Mr. Brown for the much more attractive Mr. Braeden. Few would be surprised at such a development. A little time passes, and one day she disguises herself as a man and travels to Derby with a false identity to borrow some five hundred pounds from a bank there. It is vitally important that, since they wish to tarnish Mr. Braeden, a link to the town where their bitter rival works exists is established.”

“Next, and again in her male disguise, Miss Stewart hires the services of three of Wellingborough's finest to attack the man she is now dating. Unfortunately she overdoes the cologne; you might wish to see if there is any of it in her house, sergeant, as I think she would find it hard to explain away.”

The sergeant nodded, but stayed silent.

“On Thursday, Miss Stewart visits Mr. Braeden at the works, and he mentions that they have achieved a technological breakthrough”, Cas went on. “She knows that now is the time to strike. Because of her plans, the attack has to take place on a Saturday. And here she has her first piece of bad luck. She makes a throwaway comment about her friend's overly long hair, and he decides to cut it without telling her. The lion loses his mane the following day, the consequences of which will soon be made clear.”

“On Saturday her hired ruffians do their work, and place Mr. Braeden drugged and asleep in the place she asked. They probably guard him to make sure he does not wake too soon. It is imperative that he is out cold whilst Miss Stewart puts the next stage of her plan into action.”

“What was that?” the sergeant asked.

“Miss Stewart goes to Mr. Braeden's house, and dresses herself in his clothes”, Cas said. “She has already dyed her hair blonde, and concealed it under a hat, and now she unfurls it – and unwittingly makes her first mistake. Mr. Braeden had his hair cut just hours before the attack – but ignorant of that change, she assumes he still has a full lion's mane, and heads to the station. Meanwhile Mr. Brown returns unnoticed to the works and obtains the copy of the plans his rival has been working on, then hurries to the station to meet this accomplice.”

“I learned from my inquiries that on some railways – and fortunately the Midland Railway is one of them – each conductor has a personalized set of clippers”, Cas said. “Mr. Ethelbert Cowper, who was on the train to Derby that Miss Stewart took on Sunday morning, had 17A on his clippers, denoting the route he worked as well as his personal letter. He duly clipped her ticket to Leicester shortly after her train left Wellingborough. She made a point of approaching him, hoping he would recognize her as Mr. Braeden. And when I asked Mr. Cowper, he did indeed confirm that a long-haired gentleman, smelling rather strongly of cologne, had insisted on having his ticket punched shortly after boarding at Wellingborough. Most annoyingly for Miss Stewart, Mr. Cowper does not inform the police of this fact.”

“Miss Stewart then proceeds to Leicester, where she alights.”

“Why Leicester?” I asked.

“It was where she meets her confederate from the rival Derby works”, Cas said. “It is about half-way between the two towns, and the trains cross there. There is just time for her to hand over the plans Mr. Brown gave her, and return as far as her grandmother's house in Kettering. Upon entering the train, she goes straight to the toilets, and changes back into Miss Stewart. A few minutes into the journey, and the disguise is jettisoned through the window.”

“But she forgot one thing. She changed her appearance, but she forgot to change her smell. The conductor was somewhat surprised that he had two customers that day who seemed to have bathed in cologne, especially as one was a lady. The description of the second malodorous passenger he gave matched Miss Stewart perfectly – and no-one was looking for her on a train coming from Leicester. Meanwhile, Mr. Brown or one of his ruffian confederates has been keeping an eye on Mr. Braeden, doubtless dosing him with chloroform any time he looked like coming round. Once Miss Stewart arrived back, they planted the money and the false railway ticket and both left. Miss Stewart went to Mr. Braeden's house and played her part of the concerned lady-friend, whilst secretly rejoicing at the apparent destruction of her true love Mr. Brown's rival.”

“Is there any evidence?” I wondered.

“The similarity between Miss Stewart and 'Mr. Tudor'”, Cas said. “Somewhere on the line-side south of Leicester, a set of clothes. And I think she will find it hard to explain why she told the police she was returning from Kettering, yet went to Leicester. No, they will get her, my friend.”

They did. The sergeant agreed to release Ben into my custody pending a formal dismissal of charges, which he was sure would soon follow. I had wanted to see him the moment we arrived in the town, but a mixture of fears that we might fail him and that I was, after all, someone he had not seen for nearly two decades, had held me back. When he emerged, I stared in shock. Even the unflappable Cas, standing close behind me, let out a gasp. 

The photograph had totally underplayed his appearance. He was me at twenty-two, perhaps taller and with shorter hair, but there was no doubt about it. He was my son.

“Uncle Dean?”

I snapped out of my reverie, and moved forward to pull him into an embrace, scenting that distinctive sigma smell. I could feel him shaking as he fought not to cry, and I was perilously close to making a scene in Sergeant Richards' office, where (mercifully) he had brought him.

“Ben”, I muttered. “It's all right. Everything's all right.”

I had a son. And yet, I had not. I could not ruin his life by charging in and taking more than I already had. I squeezed him, and he pulled back to smile at me.

Then Ben looked over my shoulder.

“Uncle Cas?” he said quietly.

My heart broke. Again.

+~+~+

Next, some more vignettes from our cottage days before our final case. Cas' last bow, and as the shadow of war hangs over the Continent, the great man serves his country for one last time....


	5. Clip Show 2 (1907-1914)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three more vignettes from our glorious (and still sex-filled) retirement together, as we face a set of problems from both our families.

1907-1910

I had turned fifty-five in the year of my son Ben's case, and although Cas kept me in shape (if often exhausted!), I increasingly felt like an old man in a fast-changing world. The first powered flight had taken place in the United States some four years earlier, and the year of the case saw the first powered airship, heralding a new age of war that would now take to the skies. As with the fuss over eugenics which I mentioned elsewhere, I sometimes felt that technology was a mixed blessing, and that mankind might come to rue inventing some things sooner rather than later. And I still reserved a special dislike for those ghastly 'automobiles', although my son clearly loved the death-traps!

Over one hundred and forty medals, more than fifty of them gold, marked the Olympic Games being held in London in 1908. I received an invitation but did not go; I found that I increasingly disliked crowds, preferring the quiet of our cottage. Well, the quiet when Cas was not making me scream, that was! The knowing look that I got from the vicar one particular Sunday was mortifying, as was his choice of Isaiah 13, with 'the sound of tumult on the mountains' that had more than one congregation member looking pointedly at the two of us! Nor did I attend the first-ever Ideal Home Exhibition in the capital that same year. My home was ideal enough, provided it had a Cas in it!

I did go to London – with Cas, of course – in 1909 to see two new establishments; a plush new department store called Selfridge's, and the new Victoria and Albert Museum. I had always thought that the museum was one of the greatest Victorian contributions to society, enabling people to learn about different things in relative peace and tranquillity. That was also the year of the famous (or infamous) People's Budget, the first to levy large taxes on the wealthy. Personally I thought it was a bad idea, not just because it would hit Cas' family (most of whom I had little regard for anyway) but because those affected might well leave for another country, leaving England worse off than before. I also suspected, correctly as it turned out, that Chancellor of the Exchequer David Lloyd George and his on-off ally the unpredictable President of the Board of Trade Winston Churchill were using it as a way to win control over the House of Lords. When the old king Edward VII finally expired the following year and his son and successor George V looked ready to back the government, the Lords duly capitulated.

Cas and I had cause to visit the capital again at the end of 1910, when his sister Anna fell ill. I was horrified to see that some of the trusty old horse-drawn omnibuses had been replaced by new petrol-driven vehicles, which emitted all sorts of noxious fumes as they chuntered along, barely any faster than what they had replaced. My annoyance at least made Mrs. Thompson laugh, and I am pleased to say that she soon recovered. And my bastard of a mate insisted that I go on one of the vehicles before we returned to the blessed safety and sanctity of the cottage. It was a horrendous experience that I never wished to repeat again, though he soothed my ruffled feathers with a private compartment all the way back to Sussex, and a 'ride' that left me having to sit down at our local station for some time before I could make the great trek out to the cab in the station-yard. 

Perhaps there were some compensations to those dratted 'automobiles'. Just now in using them!

 

1911

It was a glorious summer’s day, and England was ablaze with colour as the country marked the coronation of King George the Fifth and Queen Mary. There was, I thought, something almost desperate in the people’s urge to celebrate whilst they could; the previous decade had seen the Continent teeter on the brink of war on at least two occasions, only for Kaiser Wilhelm to back down. But our luck could not hold for ever, hence the urge to party like it was still the nineteenth century. Even the village was decked out in celebration, and Cas and I had contributed towards a fireworks display for the local children.

On this particular day we had exchanged the countryside for the seaside, coming down to visit Bobby and Ellen Singer, who had moved to the town of Eastbourne for their retirement. The little resort was also bedecked out in red, white and blue, and several roads had been closed off for street parties. I smiled, both at that and the frankly frazzled looks on the faces of the elderly couple.  
   
“It was good to see that Jo and Ash are all right”, Cas observed politely.  
   
Our former landlady gave him a dirty look; we had timed our visit to overlap that of the Lindbergs and their six children. Six children. I remember just before our departure from Baker Street, Ellen Singer had paid a short visit to her daughter and was despairing of ever becoming a grandmother, but shortly after that her son-in-law had got his finger (or something) out, and her daughter had been popping out little Lindbergs on a regular basis ever since. Naming the first two Robert and Ellen had been a smart move for the father, which was probably why he was allowed to keep the appendages that enabled him to have more. The others had been Janet (Mr. Lindberg's mother), William (Mrs. Singer's first husband), Peter (Mr. Lindberg's father) and Gawain (Mr. Singer’s uncle).  
   
“One child exhausted me, even if it was Jo”, Mrs. Lindberg sighed. “Having six of the little blighters here at once…. It makes me really feel my age.”  
   
“Dean is sixty next year”, chirped a certain blue-eyed genius who wasn’t getting lucky that evening. Probably. I glared at him.  
   
“I thought you’d both find retirement a lot more difficult”, Bobby Singer observed. “Get yourself dragged back every time there was a suspicious death or a political crisis in this country.”  
   
“I made it clear that fifty was as far as I was prepared to go”, Cas said firmly. “Apart from the matter of Dean’s friend Mr. Braeden, and, well, a certain affair involving laundry items, I have kept to that.”  
   
I looked at him In horror, as the elderly couple both leant forward, clearly agog.  
   
“Do tell!” Ellen Singer grinned. 

The bastard wasn't getting lucky all week, now!

Probably.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Something is bothering you”, I said as walked along the sea-front later that day. We were to spend the night at a hotel in the town and most of the next day with the Singers, driving back in the evening, so there was no hurry. “Is it to do with your father’s passing?”  
   
Sir Charles Novak had died the month before, and Cas had found the funeral particularly painful. Worse, the knight's will had only added fuel to the fire. The entire Novak wealth was to be run by a trust for the remainder of Lady Rebecca’s life, and once she passed, it was to split into two equal parts. One would be run by and for Cas, Lucifer Novak and Mrs. Anael Tompson, and the other would similarly be for the remaining siblings; Michael, Gabriel and Balthazar Novak. Michael Novak in particular had been bitter over the allocations, presumably thinking that as the eldest son, he should have got more if not everything. Words had been exchanged, and Cas had been both angry and upset when I had collected him from the station.

I had had to let him have his way with me for twenty-four hours to make him feel better, including stopping the cart on the ride home. Honestly, the things I had to put up with for that man!  
   
“The telegram that came before we left this morning was from Luke”, he said, trying ineffectually to pat down his impossible hair. “He says that Michael had taken legal advice on challenging the will, but had been told that he was all but certain to fail.”  
   
“That is good, is it not?” I wondered.  
   
“Balthazar also spoke to me at the funeral”, he said, looking at me rather oddly. “He mentioned that he was concerned about your niece, Lydia.”  
   
I bridled at his irritating brother’s interference in our lives, though if pressed, I would have had to have very grudgingly admitted that, just possibly, he may have had cause in this instance. Three years ago my eldest nephew had married one Miss Lydia Milbury, whom Cas had immediately categorized as a ‘First-Class With Honours Complete Airhead’, an appellation with which I was soon forced to agree. At the end of that year she had given birth to twins, James and Lynton, but it had soon become clear that the couple were ill-matched, and that she would and did flirt with just about anyone. She had even succeeded in wrangling an introduction to our lecherous king, which was only scuppered when that variable monarch shuffled off this mortal coil days before she had been due to meet him. Perhaps he had been lucky so to do.  
   
“She has been openly seeing a Hungarian businessman”, Cas said slowly, “which is why she had drawn my brother’s attention. I am sorry, Dean, but it has been going on for some little time. It may be even that the child she is now carrying…..”  
   
He tailed off. I felt sorry for my poor nephew, who came across to everyone as always bright and breezy, but who I knew did truly love his flibbertigibbet of a wife, and that this would hurt him greatly.  
   
“The relationship with Mr. Budar is all but over”, Cas reassured me, “as the man in question is returning to his home country very soon. But your niece – well, a leopard does not change its spots, they say.”  
   
I sighed unhappily.  
   
“Come on”, he said, “and let’s go back to our hotel and see if I can take you away from all your worries.”  
   
“That would be difficult”, I said heavily.  
   
He was suddenly right next to me.  
   
“I’m wearing your favourite panties!” he whispered in my ear, before strolling rapidly away. And I chased after him.  
   
Well, perhaps not chased. I was fifty-nine, after all. And it was damnably difficult to run with a full erection! But I tried!

1912-1914

They do say that recovery time only lengthens as one gets older, which is regrettably quite true. It took me nearly a full week to recover from the ‘celebrations’ Cas had laid on for my sixtieth birthday that year, and it was the thirtieth of January before I went down to the village, only to find out the bastards there had been running a book on how long it would be before I made it out of the cottage (the vicar won, but I think that was unfair, as he probably had a tip-off from his boss).  
   
With all my concerns over my niece Lydia, I was almost blind-sided when February brought a most unwelcome development with her brother-in-law, Sammy’s youngest son Henry. Or, as he now apparently wished to be called, Heinrich; the teenage boy had taken up with a German lady called Helga, some six years his senior and an extremely distant relative of the King of Bavaria, let alone at a time when war with Germany looked more and more certain. Doing something as foolish as that was – well, poor Sammy had totally flipped! He had promptly disinherited the lad, who had appealed to his mother in the certain knowledge that she would side with him, only find that he was very wrong. The whole affair left a bitter taste in my mouth, as I felt that I had all but lost a nephew.

At the end of March, Cas baked me an apple-pie. I was immediately wary; he only usually baked for either special occasions or bad news. There was no special occasion to hand, so it had to be the latter.  
   
“Do you remember meeting Mr. Allen back in Suffolk?” he asked.  
   
Of course I did. The curious little cult-leader, who had turned out to be hitherto unknown half-brother of the great man, and psychic to boot. Honestly, one could not make my life up! I knew that he had given his half-brother a set of prophecies before parting, two of which had already come true in the two cases that Cas had solved during our retirement, the bogus laundry affair and the attempted framing of my son, Benjamin Braeden. I wondered if this was to do with Ben, who had met and married an omega called Valerian last year.

It was not.

“My half-brother advised me that a certain chain of events was going to unfold this coming month”, Cas said warily, “and that it would, unless stopped or diverted, end in the death of a family member. Someone from your family.”

“Who?” I managed, wishing for the rest of the pie to at least distract me a little. Cas immediately handed me another slice (with cream), and I started on it at once. He let me finish before telling me who it was, and I nodded.  
   
“What do you think?” he asked. 

I wondered just how the death was to be effected, and hoped it would be a merciful one. 

“We should do nothing”, I said eventually. “What will be, will be.”

I little knew then just how what would be was about to be.

+~+~+

It was just over two weeks later, and after a bright start to the day – for once it had been me leaving my mate sleeping off a sex coma, for which I felt quite proud – I strode down to the village to collect the morning paper. What with all the good food Cas and I ate, I needed regular exercise.  
   
Apart from that!  
   
The village seemed unusually quiet, and rather oddly for a Monday the shop was shut, a rack of newspapers and an honesty box on the wall outside. Puzzled, I deposited my coins and took a newspaper, reading the main headline. Then I froze.  
   
I made it back to the house with impressive speed for someone in their seventh decade of life, and burst into the front room to find Cas, now in his dressing-gown, resting on the couch.  
   
“The 'Titanic!'” I almost shouted. “She’s sunk! The ship they called unsinkable.”  
   
It only slowly dawned on me that Cas was holding a telegram, which must have come whilst I was out. He looked up at me, almost mournfully.  
   
“This is from Balthazar”, he said. “It seems that amongst the passengers on the ship was a lady travelling first-class with two of her children. She handed them into one of the lifeboats to be rescued, then stood back as there were no more spaces. Her name was Mrs. Novak.”  
   
I stared at him in shock. Lydia, gone! But then…..  
   
“She was on the ship with her lover, an American businessman”, Cas said carefully, clearly watching for any reaction from me. “An alpha called Terence Clinton. She had claimed that he was merely escorting her and her young children, but…..”  
   
“Did he survive?” I ground out.  
   
“No”, Cas said. “She stayed with him on the ship when they ran out of lifeboat space. Apparently they only had room for about half the number of people they were carrying. Laurel and Edwin are safe as far as we know, but over a thousand have gone to their deaths.”  
   
I shuddered at such a horrible end, and almost without realizing it ran over to Cas, who wrapped his dressing-gown around us both and held me tight. I shivered, even the warmth of my personal human heater not enough for once to keep me warm.  
   
“Poor D.J.”, I said. “This will break him.  
   
+~+~+  
   
It very nearly did. Had he not had a family to support, let alone arranging for his two youngest to be returned from the United States, I think my eldest nephew may have totally despaired of life. Poor Sammy was almost as hard hit, having effectively lost his other son with Henry’s ‘Germanification’ barely a month before, and now seen his eldest son cuckolded and emotionally wrecked.

D.J. took some time to recover, and most of 'Thirteen passed quietly, as the shadow of approaching war grew ever longer. That year was marked by even more suffragette troubles, culminating in Miss Emily Davison throwing herself in front of the king's horse Anmer during the Derby. Quite why she sacrificed herself in this was remained a mystery; it only hardened attitudes against her cause, which was slowly progressing despite rather than because of the likes of her and Mrs. Pankhurst. What with the suffragettes, the Continent and the Irish, I was glad Cas and I were away from it all in our own little piece of England.

And come 'Fourteen, just as war stood ready to finally break over England, our last case came before it as a herald - and as Mr. Emmanuel Allen had rightly foretold, it would end with one of us being a killer……


	6. Case 120: Fan Fiction (1914)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'His Last Bow'.

I

This was our last case together. And despite the warnings I had received, the revelation of the identity of the killer was most definitely a surprise!

+~+~+

Seven glorious years had passed since Cas' solving of the industrial espionage case involving my son, Mr. Benjamin Braeden. Of course with his 'father' alive if estranged from him, it was impossible that I take more than a passing role in his young life, yet that role had been secured, thanks to Cas' help, and I was in effect an honorary uncle. I shall always remember the look on my mate's face when my son called him 'Uncle Cas' at the end of the Wellingborough case. It was priceless!

He had made me pay for that smugness later, though! Or had tried to. I had enjoyed every minute of it!

And now the shadow of the fast-approaching war hung over dear old England, and even Cas had, very reluctantly, agreed to take on one last case, his final bow. Which meant a return to London and, for the first time since we had left full ten years back, dear old 221B Baker Street.

+~+~+

I stared around in disbelief. The whole thing had an air of unreality about it.

We were back in our old rooms at Baker Street, albeit only for a few days. The amazing thing was that it looked as if we had been gone for ten minutes, not ten years. Everything was exactly the way we had left it back in 1904, with not a speck of dust on what were clearly copies of some of our favourite possessions. Even the old fireside chair, whose original I knew was in front of our own fireside back in Sussex, sat just where it once had. Besides me, Cas chuckled.

“Surprised?” he asked.

“A little”, I confessed. “What's happening here?”

“What do you think, doctor?” Mr. Gabriel Novak asked, edging past us. “It's basically a Novak-Winchester Museum. Your publishers rented the place off Mrs. Lindberg after you moved out, and they also took Room Four for someone to keep an eye on the place. Her, ahem, copious family takes up all the other rooms. People want to see where the great Mr. Castiel Novak solved all those cases you wrote about, and some even pay to spend the night here.”

I winkled my nose in distaste. “And you brought us here to show us this?” I asked.

His smile faded. 

“You know that we would not have called on you for help unless things were desperate”, he said. “Well, they are. Bal sent me a telegram yesterday from the Balkans the other day. Apparently the Austrians have made a whole host of demands on the Serbs after the assassination, and this time the Russians are looking as if they will back them up. That war we've been dodging for the past few decades looks like it's finally going to arrive!”

Gabriel Novak had taken over the administration of our 'retirement' a few years back when his brother Balthazar had been dispatched to south-east Europe to monitor the increasingly dangerous situation there. On several occasions since we had left Baker Street, the Continent had teetered on the edge of war, only for Kaiser Wilhelm's Germany to back down. But that luck could not last forever – and the assassination last month of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, by a Serb 'patriot' had exacerbated the already high tensions between Vienna and Belgrade.

“It's like a set of dominoes”, Gabriel had explained in the carriage on the way here. “Austria attacks Serbia, who calls on its ally Russia. Russia calls on France for help, whilst Austria calls on Germany. The Germans are looking for an excuse to attack France, but their common border is too well-defended, so they will have to go through Belgium. Great Britain has guaranteed that country's neutrality because of its ports facing us, so we could be dragged in.”

“The Germans would be foolish to try such a thing”, I said. “They cannot take on France and Russia at the same time, let alone us as well.”

“They will rely on a quick victory against France, or failing that, to seize its major industries, many of which are close to the border”, Gabriel explained. “And they will believe both that the Russians will be slow to mobilize, with their infrastructure still fairly poor, and that the Austrians will secure their eastern borders for them. I think that they are wrong on most if not all of those counts, but that is not important; if the Kaiser believes all that, he will go for broke. He also thinks one more victory against the French will finish them as a serious rival, and in that he may well be right.”

“I do not see how you think we can do anything”, I said. “We are not diplomats.”

“True”, Gabriel said. “However, by a stroke of bad luck, the French president is coming to England tomorrow for what was going to be an informal visit. In view of events in the Balkans, King George wants to do what he can to make him feel welcome. The two men will attend the performance of a play in Shaftesbury Avenue, and your attendance would certainly be appreciated.”

“Why?” Cas asked.

His brother blushed. This was not good.

“The play is called 'Before 221B'”, he said. “It is all about the two of you meeting in London a few months years before Bargate, and solving the theft of the Crown Jewels. I know, I know; I feel much the same about some of your 'fans' as you do! The French president is an ardent fan of 'Destiel' – yes, apparently that is a word now – and he would like to meet you. Of course the king cannot command your attendance – but the country needs it.”

“When is this play going to take place?” Cas asked.

“Friday”, his brother said. 

We both looked at him, and he flinched.

“Friday as in two days away?” Cas asked dryly. 

“They sprung it on me too”, his brother said defensively. “And obviously it's not just your showing up to shake hands. The heads of state of both France and Great Britain in an open royal box. An assassin's dream.”

“Can you secure us the box next to the royal box?” Cas asked. 

Gabriel nodded. 

“I should also like to see the play beforehand”, Cas said. “Are there any viewings before the royal performance?”

“Just the one tomorrow night”, Gabriel said. “I shall get you both tickets.”

+~+~+

Though Cas and I had solved many murders, I was seriously considering adding one more to the list – the ending of whoever had written this travesty of a play! Cas seemed amused at the young actor portraying him (accurately) as an untidy genius after whom I was forever cleaning up, but me? Hah!

The actor playing Dean Winchester not only looked nothing like me (his taste in clothes was atrocious!), but the character was miles off! I was either a bumbling idiot, sure I knew who had committed the crime and invariably wrong, or I sat there cleaning my revolver, pouting in a way I never did in real life. And I did not shoot at a maid because she made me jump, nor did I ever accidentally shoot myself in the foot! The fact that the few people watching seemed to find the portrayal highly amusing did not help, either.

“The man playing me is Sidney Imber”, Cas whispered, “one of the top actors of his generation. He is rather good, I must say. Yours is a virtual unknown called Johnson Ackles.”

“Your man is not portraying you as a sulky, trigger-happy imbecile with a tidying disorder!” I grouched. 

“It could be worse”, he said comfortingly. I turned to him.

“How?” I demanded.

He did not have an answer to that one. And I saw that smirk!

+~+~+

We arrived back at Baker Street to find a worried Gabriel Novak waiting for us. He did not even give us time to take our coats off. 

“The worst news imaginable!” he burst out. “Philip Delagardie has gone missing!”

Clearly this was news of some import, though I did not know why. Cas, however, looked grave.

“What happened?” he asked.

“We sent our agent in Berlin to check up on him, and he has been gone for three days”, Gabriel groaned. “And taken his passport with him. He could easily be here right now.”

“Who is this man?” I asked. Cas turned to me.

“One of the top assassins on the Continent”, he said grimly. “Out job has become that much harder. So we shall just have to change the rules of the game to suit us.”

We both looked at him, confused.

II

I awoke on Friday morning to find, as had so often been the case in our many years at Baker Street, that I seemed to have acquired a human octopus during the night. I looked at the clock, and saw that it said just after seven, which was early for me and impossible for Cas. I silently hoped that Mrs. Lindberg had had the foresight to make coffee for him.

He opened one blue eye at me and squinted at the early morning light. 

“Ugh!” he muttered. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven”, I told him. 

To my surprise he groaned.

“What is it?” I asked anxiously.

“Gabriel is coming at nine to take us to the morning rehearsals”, he said. And these rooms are already booked for a party this weekend, so we cannot stay here afterwards, whatever happens. I hoped our last day here might be memorable.”

I grinned and raised his sleepy head, running a finger through his ever-present stubble and kissing him on the lips.

“It will be”, I whispered, “if before he arrives, you take me in every room here!”

His eyes shot open, and a feral smile creased his features. In seconds he was between my legs fingering me open whilst I writhed above him, waiting for him to get on with it. And get on with it he very quickly did, pushing in and bottoming out with a grunt, and setting to work straight away by fingering my nipples with one hand and rubbing my cock with the other. There was no way I could resist such a combined assault, nor did I wish to, and I was coming in minutes. I was surprised that he did not come inside of me, but when he stood on the end of the bed, I realized why.

“I shall be sixty myself very soon”, he said, “and I needed the ring to hold me back.”

Looking up at him, I wondered if that was what it had felt like to sail beneath the Colossus of Rhodes, that short-lived wonder of the Ancient World. Except Cas was a living breathing wonder who was already dragging me off to the main room. The famous fireside chair was a replica and looked unlikely to bear the weight of two grown men, so Cas seated me on the couch, my erection already rising again despite my sixty-two years, and squatted naked over me before lowering himself onto me, taking me so quickly I nearly blacked out. I was supposed to be the one in charge here, but Cas was literally dragging the orgasm out of me, and I came a second time with a satisfied grunt.

Into my bedroom next, and Cas all but threw me into the bed, my now tired cock flagging at all the effort. At least I was still loose enough to take him without any further preparation, and he thrust in easily, reaching round and gently massaging my cock without trying to force another orgasm out of me. Yet despite my tiredness, I still managed a few feeble spurts as he drove hard inside me, and this time he did come, grabbing me hard as he rode through his first orgasm.

“I broke the ring!” he muttered. “You are some alpha, Dean Winchester!”

I smiled at the praise, but my limbs were leaden as he too me into the bathroom, and eased me under the shower. Had he not been supporting me I might well have collapsed, but the refreshing spray coupled with his tender ministrations as he kissed his way around my body made me feel a little stronger, and when he ran his tongue up the underside of my cock, it actually managed to become almost fully erect again. Cas eased in behind me and slipped inside of me, not pushing for an orgasm this time but content to make us one, somehow recharging me just by his presence. I leaned against the wall for support, and the movement caused him to brush against my prostate and come forcibly. My cock twitched, but that was all. I was done.

He sat me on the side of the bath whilst he ran the hot water, and soon he had me nestling against him under the bubbles and steamy water, thankful that my shattered muscles were at least being supported by the water. It did not last long, and we were interrupted by the sound of the bell.

“Gabriel?” I whined.

“Breakfast”, he grinned, slipping out and seemingly unaffected by our little marathon. “I shall fetch it into the main room.”

I managed to summon the energy to lay a hand on his bare leg, and he looked down at me.

“I love you”, I said simply.

“I know”, he smiled. “And that makes me the luckiest alpha in Old London Town!”

+~+~+

Gabriel had of course scowled at us when he came at the end of breakfast to collect us, muttering something about impossible alphas. Cas had just smirked, which made things worse, especially as I was weak on my legs. 

“The play is not that bad”, Cas said comfortingly once we were in the cab on the way to the theatre. “Look what you grew up into.”

I preened.

“Even is you couldn't shoot straight, and pouted too much!”

I scowled (it was not a pout). He chuckled and took my arm, which mollified me slightly.

Once at the theatre we were introduced to Mr. Robert Benedict, the director of the play. He was awestruck at our appearance and wanted to introduce us to all the cast, but Cas dissuaded him.

“They have to perform tonight”, he said. “I do not want them to worry, especially as the doctor and I will be in the audience.”

“You... will be watching?” The man looked horrified.

“Indeed”, Cas said. “Pray tell us how you came to be performing this most remarkable piece.”

I would have used quite a different adjective to describe it, one decidedly more Anglo-Saxon. And shorter. The director squinted at Cas over the top of his round glasses, clearly suspecting sarcasm, but as usual no-one was ever going to able to out-stare my blue-eyed genius. Mr. Benedict blinked several times as his eyes watered.

“The play was originally written by a Miss Leonie Redfern and a Miss Berenice Delaney”, he said. “They run a small theatre group up in the city of York. Of course we had to adapt it somewhat for the London stage, and also because we were fortunate enough to secure the services of Mr. Imber.”

“How did you come to be performing it?” Cas asked. 

“Mr. Imber was on holiday in the county, and being a Destiel man like myself, he saw the play being advertised and decided to see what it was like”, the man said. “He asked the ladies for a script, and of course they said yes, though I do not yet know what they will make of our changes.”

“Such as?” I inquired, a tad coldly. 

“People expect extremes in the theatre, doctor”, he said soothingly. “We have to exaggerate characteristics to make the audience laugh or cry. I take it you have not seen the performance yourselves as of yet?”

“We have read some reviews”, Cas cut in before I could say something that I would not have regretted in the slightest. “They were generally positive, so we decided that as we were visiting the Old Country, we would spend an evening watching ourselves. Vanity, one might say.”

“We should be honoured, but I will respect your wishes and not inform the actors beforehand”, he said. “I suppose that you are right; it would only make them even more nervous. Mr. Ackles nearly forgot his lines twice last night as it was.”

Two missed chances to make me look an even greater fool, I thought bitterly. Oh lucky me!

III

“How did you come to choose him as the young doctor?” Cas asked. “He is certainly not as famous as Mr. Imber.”

“He was one of twelve people who read for the part, and very keen”, the director said. “Physically he matched up to what was wanted. Besides which, Mr. Imber has a reputation for being a little, ahem, difficult when it comes to his fellow performers, and he took a dislike to several of the others he had to read with. I do not think he actually likes Mr. Ackles either, for that matter, but he at least tolerated him. He got on with two of the other candidates quite well, but they read poorly, and neither really matched the physical requirements either.”

“Divas!” I muttered. He smiled at me.

“Mr. Ackles has a slight accent”, Cas observed. “Which country does he hail from originally?”

“He is an Austrian by birth”, Mr. Benedict said, “but he spent most of his life in the United States before moving here recently. I believe that he is estranged from his father, who still lives in Vienna.”

“I have one more question”, Cas said. “The scene where Mr. Imber walks behind a pillar in the middle of the stage, then disappears. Am I to assume a trapdoor is involved?”

The director nodded. 

“A dual door that splits and opens downwards, dropping him onto a feather mattress a few feet below”, he said. “There are markings on it to warn people off; you cannot see those from the audience, of course, but unless someone stands exactly where the foot-marks are, the mechanism will not work. And there is a lock, of course.”

“I see”, Cas said. “I suppose that your artists run true to form, and will not be in until later this morning?”

“That is correct”, he said. “Do you wish to examine the stage where it all takes place?”

“I would like a quick look”, Cas said. “Do not disturb yourself; I will only be a few minutes. Doctor, shall we go?”

+~+~+

I moved to the front of the stage and stared out into the audience. Tonight there would be not just a couple of hundred members of the public, but the King-Emperor of Great Britain and the President of France watching on. All looking at the fool that was Dean Winchester.

At least I got the real thing, I thought morosely. 

“When the diva Dean Winchester has finished bowing to the crowds”, a voice came from right next to my ear, “we might leave.”

I did not jump up, or let out a girly shriek. Much.

“You'll pay for that!” I grumbled.

He looked at me coquettishly.

“Promise?” he grinned, before disappearing through a door.

I may have been a sexagenarian, but I still ran after him. Didn't catch him, though!

+~+~+

After I had made my feelings clear about how annoyed I was to be called a diva - a point I made twice, despite being sixty-two years old – Cas apologized. He did warn me, however, that he might have to slip away during the performance tonight, but that I should watch the stage and tell him later what I thought of 'my performance'. But when he saw how cross I was, he dragged me into a small dressing-room and more than made it up to me.

As I staggered out to the cab, I wondered if I could sneak some cushions into our box for later....

+~+~+

The visit of king-emperor and president to the theatre was, for obvious reasons, done anonymously, and judging from the large but not massive crowds waiting for admission, the secrecy had worked. I only hoped Cas' preparations to prevent any attack would work, too.

During the interlude I used the gentleman's toilets, and returned to find a note from Cas saying he had been called away as expected. I sighed, and waited for the humiliation to resume. 

The play finished with one of the thieves having been captured and one escaped, the latter breaking into the room our young selves were staying in to try to kill young Cas in revenge. Of course bumbling young Dean inadvertently helped save the day by misreading the situation, but allowing Cas time to get his pistol from a drawer and hold the attacker at gunpoint until the police arrived a few moments later. The closing lines were Cas thanking me for saving his life, and me not having a clue what had been going on, which was par for the course, really.

The actors lined up on the stage with Imber and the bastard playing me in the middle, and all bowed to the audience. Then the lights suddenly switched to light up the royal box, and everyone saw who had been watching them all evening, the audience rising as one to their feet. I assumed the orchestra was going to play the National Anthem – but that didn't happen, because something else did instead.

Mr. Imber, Cas, suddenly pointed the gun he was still holding straight at the royal box. There were several gasps from the audience, but no-one moved to stop him. He squeezed the trigger.....

IV

…. and an explosion of red, white and blue paper exploded from the nozzle!

The look on the actor's face was one of complete confoundment. He squeezed the trigger once again, but only succeeded in creating more multi-coloured confetti. Seeing policemen advancing from one side of the stage – I recognized Superintendent Baldur at their head – he ran quickly back to the trapdoor (the pillar had been removed, so I knew where he was going) and jumped on it.

Nothing happened. 

He had time for two more jumps before the policemen were on him. At that moment the conductor of the orchestra, clearly a man of impeccable timing, led his orchestra into La Marseillaise, and followed it up with the National Anthem. Mr. Sidney Imber had by then long been dragged to the cells.

+~+~+

“It made for a fitting last case”, Cas said as we returned to Baker Street for the last time. “Our final adventure together, and just as my half-brother foretold, the murderer was Mr. Castiel Novak!”

The aftermath of the performance had been draining, and had involved an overly-long interview with both the king-emperor and the president that I would long remember. I had promised (in very bad French, corrected of course by the blue-eyed genius) to send him a set of my complete works, signed, and both gentlemen had thanked us profusely. And I had spoken with, and shaken hands with, George the Fifth himself! The Emperor of a quarter of the known world!

I pulled myself together. “What made you suspect Mr. Imber?” I asked.

“He seemed the obvious candidate”, Cas said. “For one thing, whoever planned this had to have known about the visit of the French president to England, and that as a 'destiel' fan he would ask to see a play if one were on at the time. That meant someone most probably in the pay of the Germans or the Austrians. When Mr. Imber happened across that theatre group in York, he had his chance. And someone of his calibre, having 'discovered' the play, would surely be met by acceptance if he asked for the lead role.”

“So you suspected him from the start?” I asked. 

He nodded.

“If we are being honest”, he said looking at me somewhat warily, “the play was irredeemably atrocious! Yet one of the leading actors of our generation wanted to be in it. That seemed odd.”

“But what happened with his gun?” I asked.

Cas smiled.

“Ah, before the gun there was the small matter of the trap-door”, he said. “Having seen the play, I knew it would offer the perfect escape for a gunman. I would say that he was most probably aiming for the president rather than the king, as he might only have time for one shot.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because if King George dies, then his son simply takes over”, Cas said. “I know Gabriel has some reservations about that young man, rightly so I fear, but the constitutional disturbance to our country would be minimal. If the French president is shot whilst visiting the capital of a supposed ally, however, all hell would break loose. The French have never coped well with change, and their response to any German attack would be weakened. Thus Mr. Imber, who is by the way an excellent shot, would only need one bullet.”

“How do you know he is an excellent shot?” I asked. 

“Superintendent Baldur has been finding out rather a lot about that treacherous young man”, Cas said. “Not only did his father provide him with a course of shooting lessons, but he also has expensive tastes which an actor's variable income could not support. His bank account has received several mysterious deposits of late, and it may be that with time they will be traced to the country which employed him.”

“So, the trap-door?” I prompted.

“When we visited the theatre this morning, I examined the mechanism”, he said. “There is a set of levers just behind the back of the stage, and one of them locks the mechanism. One of the two things I did when I was backstage was to wait until he had disappeared in the Tower scene, then lock it. I did not want him to escape.”

“And the gun?” I prompted.

“Having a gun with live bullets in it is dangerous, especially in a theatre with so many people”, Cas said. “I managed to catch him at the start of the interlude swapping the gun with blanks for his own weapon, and leaving it in the drawer from which he extracted it in the final scene. Since the drawer was behind a scenery wall that was used earlier in the play, I was able to wait for him to go to his room, then replace the bullets with something more colourful.”

We had arrived at Baker Street, and to our surprise we saw Superintendent Baldur coming down the steps. 

“I thought you might be home”, he said, his face grave. “There's been some bad news.”

“Not another attempt on the president?” I asked, worried.

He shook his head.

“No”, he said, “Mr. Imber. The police van taking him to the station was held up by eight armed men, and he was dragged out and shot. There were only three officers, so they couldn't stop them.”

“So those who live by the sword die by it”, Cas said softly. “Doubtless he was promised a great reward by whichever country employed him. I almost wish I could have been there to see him receive it.”

I could not but agree.

+~+~+

We went to Gabriel's hotel for the night, and the following day we were both glad to leave London for our country retreat. As we entered, I paused at the door of our little cottage, and looked down to the village, nestling peacefully in the dean beneath us.

“Men from there are going to be marching off to war, soon”, I said sadly. “Some will never come back, and others will return less than whole. The Continent will never be at peace until Germany is defeated.”

He came up behind me, as always a source of warmth and comfort as he stood close. 

“I always admired that part of you, Dean”, he said softly. “In another age you would have been the knight-crusader, heading off to slay the dragon and rescue the fair damsel in distress.”

I leaned back into him.

“What do I want with fair damsels?” I scoffed lightly. “I have you, remember?”

“And you always will”, he whispered.

Together, we went into our home, and onto whatever the future held for us both. Cas and Dean, together for always. It really was... elementary!


	7. Clip Show 3 (1917-1936)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six more vignettes from the years after our final case together, and the ups and downs of the Winchester and Novak families (and the ups and downs of Cas and myself!) as we continued to grow old disgracefully.

1917  
   
It was three years since the start of the Great War, the war which was to have been all over by Christmas of ‘Fourteen. Yet here we were at the end of ‘Seventeen, and it was basically stalemate. Britannia continued to rule the waves, and Imperial Germany’s ham-fisted attempts to stop that had finally brought the United States into the war on our side. But more than cancelling that out was the effective loss of our allies the Russians, whose constitutional torture had allowed Kaiser Wilhelm to transfer more and more troops to his southern and western fronts. Stalemate, but something had to give soon, either our increasingly beleaguered trench lines or the tottering German economy.  
   
I sniffed mournfully, and wrapped myself ever tighter in blankets which seemed to do precious little to keep out the cold. Cas brought another cup of honeyed tea – yes, he had finally converted me – and placed it on the table next to me, then sat down and pulled me to him. I went willingly.  
   
“I am sorry”, he whispered. “But at least we got to him in time.”

Two weeks ago, British forces had won a great victory at the Third Battle of Gaza, laying the way open to Jerusalem and the ailing Ottoman Empire's weak southern flank. But at what had proven to be nearly a terrible cost to me, and I had Cas to thank for avoiding a tragedy. My son, Lieutenant Benjamin Braeden, been court-martialed for desertion, and would have been shot as was common practice at the time had not a colleague of his, a Lieutenant Carton Jones, had the kindness to send a warning telegram to his mate Valerian, who had shown great sense by contacting me at once. The full weight of the Novak machine was immediately thrown into action, and Ben was now being shipped back, having been honourably discharged.

“It was partly my fault”, I muttered. Ben had wanted to see the Holy Land, and I had used my influence to get him into a regiment that was assigned there. And it had so nearly got him killed.  
   
“You only did as he asked”, Cas reassured me. “And besides, if he had gone to the Western Front….”  
   
He trailed off, but I knew that he was thinking not only of the horrific casualty rates in those terrible killing fields – mathematically I knew that Ben would have been more likely to have been killed there even before he had journeyed out to Egypt earlier in the year – but that our nephew Henry – Heinrich as he now called himself – had left England for Germany at the start of the war, and enrolled in the Imperial army. The thought of my nephew killing my son was unbearable. Cas pulled me even closer, and whispered to me that it was all right to cry.  
   
So for once, I let myself do just that.  
   
+~+~+

Ben's marriage to Valerian, an omega whom I had come to think very highly of, had as I said led to an estrangement with his 'father', Colonel Matthew Warburton, now squire at Stoke Fratrum whence we had once visited him and his wife – my brief, one-time lover, Lisa. She had died two years ago, which I think had only served to exacerbate the family split. The colonel had had two (more) children with her, both daughters, and had formally disinherited Ben, of course not knowing that the boy was my blood, not his. Even when Valerian gave birth to twin alphas, Benjamin Junior and Levi, there was no reconciliation, and I had privately thought that one of the reasons that Ben had enlisted was an attempt to regain his father's approval. Two more children had followed before Ben had joined up, a daughter Elizabeth and a beta son Samuel.  
   
What did make me even angrier, however, was the discovery soon afterwards that Major Warburton had, like us, been informed of his son's 'desertion' and capture, and had been offered the chance to have him returned home, only for the bastard to insist that the full punishment be carried out. Had it not been for the faithful Lieutenant Jones (who sadly died in action the following year; Cas and I made sure to take care of his family for him), we would not have known until it had been too late. I hated the colonel for that.

+~+~+  
   
The whole affair was resolved before the end of the year, and Cas accompanied me down to Plymouth to greet my son off the ship. He had clearly been shattered by the stress of warfare, and I felt bitterly angry towards those who treated soldiers who broke under the duress of battle as cowards. Unluckily poor Valerian had sprained his ankle and could not come with us, but we accompanied Ben back to Sussex. My son was still dazed by recent events, but he looked round in surprise when we alighted at our nearest station and were driven into our home village.

“I can't stay with you, Uncle Dean, Uncle Cas”, he protested.

“You are not”, I told him. “Val has sold the house in Hampshire – it was too close to your father's place anyway – and we found him a nice little place in the village. And the garage can use an extra mechanic, with all the vehicles on the roads these days.”

He looked at us tearfully, and fortunately Cas stepped in to prevent a mushy moment.

“Val and your children are waiting for you”, he reminded Ben. “And remember, you can call on us any time. Though it is probably better if you let us know if you are coming.”

Ben blushed bright red, muttered his thanks and almost ran into the small house. Cas chuckled and clicked the reins, driving me home for a prolonged session of what some might, in an uncharitable moment, have described as cuddling.

+~+~+

Just days later, my emotions were still frazzled by the whole affair, so I was in little state to receive the news that arrived that New Year’s Eve. On the little regarded southern front, the Central Powers had recently won a great victory at Caporetto, pushing back the Italians some distance. Of course any information from so far away, let alone it being a war zone, was bound to take time to reach us, but reach us it eventually did.  
   
“Henry – Heinrich - is dead”, Cas said quietly as we sat on the bench outside the cottage.  
   
I looked down into the little dean and the village below us, and sighed. Valerian had been up earlier that day; his mate had had nightmares every night, but otherwise was doing better than I had expected, given some of the horror stories I read about returning soldiers elsewhere.  
   
“What about his son?” I asked. My lost nephew's wife had given him one son, called Wilhelm after the German emperor and born last year. I did not know if she was pregnant with a second; her husband had cut off all communication with his English relatives after being disinherited.  
   
“Your niece’s brother Arnulf has taken him in”, Cas said. “She had no other family.”  
   
I was sorry for the poor baby, whose father had made such poor decisions in his life, but in a sense I felt something akin to relief. The thought of a blood relative of mine killing my fellow countrymen – it was horrible!  
   
“Dean?”  
   
“Uh huh?”  
   
“I love you.”  
   
I looked at him in surprise. Sixty-three now, Cas had grown into what one newspaper rather daringly called recently ‘a silver fox’, the grey and the dark in perfect balance in his always untidy hair, making him look positively gorgeous. Whatever the Fates threw at the Winchester and Novak clans, at least I still had him.  
   
“Take me inside”, I muttered, shivering slightly.  
   
“What, out here?” he teased. I swatted at him.  
   
“Inside the cottage, you sex maniac!” I groused.  
   
And he did. 

 

1922  
   
I paused as I passed the war memorial in the village, and wondered. It was the day of my seventieth birthday, but apart from some pretty mind-blowing sex as my morning wake-up call, I had had no present as yet. Cas had told me that he was having something delivered, but it would not be here until later in the day. I silently cursed my increasingly slow limbs, and set off up the High Street.  
   
The war had ended four years ago, and England had welcomed the return of peace, whilst mourning the non-return of so many of its young men. Of course I was glad that there was peace, but something about the general public reaction in the years after the war made me nervous. Imperial Germany had been scotched, not killed, and I feared that the increasing reluctance I felt amongst many of my fellow Englishmen to pay such a heavy price again might encourage our old enemy to try once more in the future, when it had recovered sufficiently.  
   
Apart from Ben, who thanks to a merciful God had recovered far better than many of his ilk, I had hoped that our family would emerge little scarred by the terrible conflict of those four fateful years. But it was not to be; that summer an outbreak of what became known as the Spanish Flu (so-called because the still ongoing war led to a ban on reporting the effects everywhere except neutral Spain), hitting a weakened population just as victory seemed in sight. My poor nephew D.J. saw his already damaged family decimated, with James, Laurel and Edwin all dying in September. Only Lynton, the second-eldest, survived, one of the few to fall ill and recover. 

D.J. himself had been ill that summer, though mercifully not with the fatal virus, and in one of those ironic twists of which life is apparently fond of throwing at people, that illness brought in the man who was to help him through the dark days ahead. An omega nurse called Torrin, unusually tall and muscular for one of his type, he helped my poor nephew through all his travails, and I for one was not the least bit surprised when my nephew proposed to him, their marriage taking place just before Christmas of that year. The following Christmas Torrin gave birth to an omega son, Daniel, and had followed this up with a son Henry last year. And I had just learnt that he was pregnant again. 

One way in which my own life had changed in those post-war years was when the garage, at which I periodically helped out, set up a second smaller establishment on the main road that passed by the village, where they installed a petrol-pump to cope with the recent increase in road traffic. The village itself remained quiet, being on a little-used country through-road with both a ford and a weak bridge further along its length, but there was a sign directing the highly unreliable early 'automobiles' to the main garage, where they could be repaired. Despite my initial dislike of these death-traps, I sometimes helped out my son at the local garage, and found myself increasingly drawn to them, and rather liked the idea of being able to drive up and down the steep hill on which our cottage lay, rather than having to haul my tired muscles along every time. Especially after Cas had been more thorough than usual.....  
   
I had promised to buy the light of my life half a pound of barley-sugar at the shops (how he kept his teeth so perfect with the amount of the stuff he got through a week, Heaven only knew!). As I put my hand on the door to enter the little sweet-shop, I heard the sound of a car approaching from the distant main road. Probably another victim of modern technology who had thought he could trust his vehicle, I thought wryly, even if part of me – a very small part, that knew Cas would tease me to death if he ever found out about it – enjoyed working on these strange new vehicles that were becoming an increasing part of the garage’s daily business. I shook myself and went inside the shop.  
   
I decided to buy a full pound of the stuff, knowing how quickly Cas got through it, and emerged into the unusually bright winter sunlight somewhat dazzled. It therefore took a couple of seconds to recognize the vehicle that was drawn up outside the shop, and probably rather too long to recognize the driver. 

“Cas?”  
   
He grinned at me, and got elegantly out of the driver’s side before walking round to me. I stared at the sleek blue-black vehicle in awe.  
   
“It’s a Chevrolet 490, their latest model”, Cas smiled. I stared at him in shock.  
   
“American?” I asked.  
   
“Of course”, he said, as if it were obvious. “The one you ringed in that catalogue you keep under the bed.”  
   
I was sure that the manufacturers of this vehicle back in the United States could probably see my blush. But the thing was stunning! I had seen the company models from the past two years in a garage magazine and not been that impressed, but the 490 was in another league, and I had been quite tempted by the reduced price. And now I had one.  
   
Like an idiot, I only slowly realized that Cas was holding out the keys to me.  
   
“Happy birthday, beloved!” he grinned. “I said that your present would be arriving later today, and this is the first part of it.”  
   
“Only the first part?” I asked, awed. He nodded.  
   
“I thought that we could drive over to Oakdown Hill, and christen the back seat”, he grinned evilly. “That’s the second part. If you’re up to it now you’re a septuagenarian!”  
   
I pouted and snatched the keys off of him, easing myself behind the wheel and breathing in the gorgeous smell of new leather and Cas. God, I was one lucky man at times!  
   
+~+~+  
   
The back seats were quite narrow, and it was fortunate that even at sixty-seven, Cas was as flexible as ever. We christened not only the back seats, but the front ones as well!

 

1927  
   
One of the hardest parts about being a doctor was accepting that sometimes, nothing you could do was enough, True, my profession had come a long way in recent times, but there were still instances when nothing in my arsenal of knowledge and treatments was enough to save someone. And even a year on, it still hurt.  
   
Cas came over and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder as I washed my hands after examining D.J. for a chest infection. I was in my nephew's Surrey home, exactly one year on from when I had come to oversee the delivery of his omega son Lynton’s first child. A delivery from an omega who was not yet seventeen years old. A delivery the poor, foolish omega had not survived, even if the scrap of a child somehow had.  
   
“You did your best”, Cas said softly. I had not even heard him come into the bathroom. “You could not have done more, given the circumstances.”  
   
I shook at the sink, remembering washing the blood of my poor great-nephew off of my hands, and watching it filter slowly down the drain. Cas gently embraced me, laying his head against my shoulders. I let myself go, sobbing my heart out as I stood there in his arms, wishing that I had been a better doctor, wishing poor Lyn back, wishing…..  
   
Wishing could not make it so.  
   
+~+~+  
   
I was more composed later when I saw D.J. and Torrin, his scruffy omega mate who increasingly reminded me of a taller version of Cas, though nothing like as handsome. I appreciated the way that the latter had also asked me to check in on two-year-old Deirdre, who had little more than a minor cough, and whose merry nature was so like her grandfather's usual manner. They had five children of their own now, and one reason for our visit was to conform that Torrin was expecting number six.  
   
“I see that you drove up this morning”, Torrin said. “It is good that you have the car, what with us living in such a rural area.”  
   
“Very useful”, Cas agreed. “It would have been up to four train rides and a carriage ride at either end to get here from our little hideaway. Though it did mean that I was subjected to Dean’s driving, which has not improved one jot since he got the car. If those rumours about them making people pass a test before they can drive are true, he may well be forced off the road!  
   
Most irritatingly he had sidled out of swatting range as he spoke, so I had to settle for a scowl. My nephew and his mate both chuckled.  
   
“I drive very well”, I said loftily, “though I must say that the roads are definitely getting busier. I am the only one in the village garage who can fix some problems, now that Ben has gone to work in the new branch in Lewes. And I can fix anything that is wrong with the Impala.”  
   
“With the what?” my nephew asked, clearly confused.  
   
“Our car is, apparently, not only female but named after a South African species of antelope”, Cas said glumly, sounding like he was the most put-upon mate in the history of ever. “I wanted to eat a packet of crisps as we were driving here, and your uncle insisted that we pull over so I would not soil 'her’.”  
   
I thought of what we still managed to do from time to time on the back seats, and grinned. Until Torrin, who had clearly somehow picked up Cas’ mind-reading abilities somewhere along the line, coughed pointedly.  
   
“Uncle Dean?” he said sharply. “Really!”  
   
“Says the man with five children and number six on the way”, I replied acidly. “Clearly you know how that game is played.”  
   
“Pie!” D.J. almost shouted, looking mortified. “I had it made especially. And for God’s sake, let us please change the subject!”  
   
I exchanged a smirk with Torrin, and thought longingly of the Impala’s back seat…..  
   
1929  
   
It was Cas’ seventy-fifth birthday, which meant that he got to pick everything that warm September day. After a long, slow sensual start to the day, he decided that he wanted to load up the car and head to one of our favourite spots by the River Ouse, not that far away, for a picnic, which he had ordered from one of the great London stores to be delivered to the cottage before lunch-time. And yes, there was pie!

I had been unusually bereft of ideas as to what to get the man I loved as a present for this particular milestone, but as usual he had forestalled me, telling me that his greatest wish was that, when we returned to the cottage, I would grant his one request. Naturally that had me feeling highly-strung for the entirety of the picnic, not helped by frequent touches and knowing looks (and yes, I was wearing the panties, which I felt ridiculous in at my age, but so what?). The pie was delicious, but I could definitely think of another use for the cream, which was not the only thing on the river-bank that was completely whipped.

Whips. Hmm. We hadn't played teacher and student for some time.....

Cas smirked at me again, and I blushed. Hell, I was seventy-seven years old, and like a maiden who was about to lose her virtue for the first time. Which was about as far from the truth as that mysterious extra planet they had reported to be looking for beyond Neptune.

After a gloriously sunny afternoon and some serious making-out on the river-bank, we returned to the village. To my surprise Cas insisted on dropping the car off at the garage, where Kent, one of the blacksmith's boys, was waiting in his old banger to give us a life home. I wondered what this was all about, the muscular alpha's smirk not helping, and wondered even more when Cas insisted on blindfolding me on the way back to the cottage.

I heard Kent bid us farewell (and me good luck, the bastard!) then drive off, and Cas guided me to somewhere in front of the front door. I smiled as I remembered coming here just after we had arrived here the first time, and the two of us rolling naked down the slope together. That field was a lot bumpier than it had looked....

“Not that”, Cas whispered in my ear, making me jump. “You did say that you would do anything for my birthday, Dean?”

Hell, yes!

“Then I wish for you to..... accept this!”

He undid the blindfold, and I was temporarily blinded by the brightness of the early evening light, even though the sun itself was over the crest of the hill. Then I stared in astonishment at the sight before me.

“It's a Chevrolet AC”, Cas smiled. “The latest model, and more efficient that our old one, which only your skilled fingers have kept going till now.”

The vehicle was stunning, done unlike the old car in sleek black all over. And engraved on the side of the car was what was most definitely an impala. I beamed.

“The Impala lives!” I all but shouted. I made to open the door, only to find a restraining hand on my wrist.

“Dean?”

“Yes?”

“Have you not forgotten something?”

I frowned. Damned old age, what had slipped my memory this time? He grinned.

“We need to christen her”, he smirked.

Hell, yes!

 

1930  
   
Cas had baked me apple-pie again. I wondered glumly just how bad the news was that he was about to break over me. 

Fortunately, it was not bad for us.  
   
“You remember the Wall Street Crash last year?” he began, as I toyed with my third slice.  
   
“Of course”, I said warily. “It hasn’t hurt you, has it?”  
   
He shook his head.  
   
“My beloved half-brother Emmanuel saw it coming as per usual, and warned me to get out in time”, he said. “I passed the warning on to Michael, but he… well, he chose to ignore it.”  
   
Cas’ redoubtable mother, Lady Rebecca Novak, had died the year after the War had ended, and her husband’s will had duly been put into effect, splitting the Novak inheritance in two between what Cas laughingly called the ‘rebels’ (himself, Lucifer Novak and Mrs. Anael Thompson) and the ‘loyalists’ (Michael, Balthazar and Gabriel Novak). Michael had been left in sole charge of his half of things when Balthazar had died in the Greek-Turkish war that followed the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire at the end of the War (Cas snidely told me that he had taken rather too literally the instruction to 'get into bed with the Greeks'!), and Gabriel had taken his wife back to her native India, having been bought out by his elder brother. I knew that Cas had already stepped in to help Muriel, Balthazar's widow, who had been rebuffed by Michael when she had requested financial assistance, and had forced Michael to allow her to take Balthazar's share for her own use.  
   
“And now he is ruined?” I mused. I had always hated Michael Novak for his attitude towards Cas and myself, the most hostile in the family after the late and un-lamented Raphael. “What about his wife and family?”  
   
“That is what I wished to talk with you about”, Cas explained. “I know that he would refuse any help from me, as he still hates us both. But you have always got on well with his wife, and you exchange letters quite often. Michael hates you as much as me, of course, but I think if you approached him through her, he might accept some help. Especially for his family.”  
   
“I am surprised that you would want to help him, after the way he treated us”, I groused.  
   
“It is what Father would have wanted”, Cas said, running his hand idly over my shirt. “Though I am sure had the positions been reversed, he would have done precisely nothing.”  
   
“Yet you would still help him”, I said. “You have a big heart, Cas.”  
   
I suddenly realized where his hand was heading, and gulped.  
   
“That’s not the only big thing about me”, he muttered silkily.  
   
Looked like it was going to be a long night again. Praise the Lord!  
   
   
1936  
   
Sixteen-year-old Daniel Winchester stormed into the cottage in what was clearly not a happy mood. Then again, he had some cause.  
   
“I cannot believe it!” he yelled at us. “You’re both over eighty, and to be caught going at it in the headmaster’s office? Hell, I’m the only omega whose relatives have been barred from De Montfort's for life! And you had to go and do it right at the start of the flipping term!”  
   
Cas chuckled, and I tried to control a smirk of my own. Our great-nephew had a point, I supposed, but when Cas had come out of the changing-rooms wearing that damned waistcoat – well, what else was an alpha to do? And the headmaster had been laughing as he had banned us, although his secretary had looked scandalized (though not enough to prevent her from simpering at Cas, damn it!).  
   
“Your father thought it was funny”, I muttered. Daniel rounded on me.  
   
“His sense of humour has got even worse ever since he and Tor started emulating you”, he groused. “Eight siblings is more than enough proof of that!”  
   
“Mind the tree”, Cas said reprovingly as our great-nephew turned sharply near the over-decorated monstrosity (his words) in the corner of the room. Daniel glared at us both, then stormed upstairs, huffing as he went. Cas drew out a notebook, and added the school to the impressively long list of places we had been banned for life from.

We were so bad!  
   
+~+~+  
   
It was fortunate, as things turned out, that my nephew came down when he did, because Cas was having my birthday present delivered, a Chevrolet Master. Hearing that throaty roar as it came along the rutted driveway was one of the best sounds of my life – well, excluding the ones I could still pull out of the blue-eyed genius, of course. The car was black and chrome, and tailored with several extras including the silver impala on the side.  
   
The driver was a bit of a surprise, though, as he was… well, young. An alpha, and barely eighteen by the looks of him. He looked very like a younger version of Cas, reminding me of our first meeting back in Oxford all those years ago....

Happy days!  
   
“Mr. Constantine Tippens”, he smiled as he alighted from the vehicle, his accent clearly American. “My father owns the New York dealership you order from, and we are thinking of setting up a place over here as well. He said I could have the honour of delivering….  
   
His voice died off and I realized that he was staring past us. Following his gaze, I turned and saw that Daniel had emerged from the cottage, wearing only the dressing-gown he preferred when he visited. He stared back at the visitor, and his eyes widened perceptibly.  
   
Yes, the expression on Mr. Tippens' face must have been how I looked back in Stamford's room when I first met the man beside me. And that could only mean one thing.....  
   
Cas interposed himself swiftly between the young men, and placed a warning hand on the alpha’s shoulder.  
   
“Down, boy!” he commanded.  
   
I was grateful that Cas still had that voice of his, even if nowadays he only usually used it on me. Mr. Tippens shook himself, gave one lustful look at my great-nephew and nodded.  
   
“Sorry, sirs”, he said. “Don’t.... don't know what came over me.”  
   
“Whatever it was, it seems to have come over Daniel as well”, I teased, prodding my great-nephew out of his trance and earning a sharp glare for my troubles. “Since you’ve come all this way, I am sure you can stop for some refreshments, and then maybe Daniel can show you round.”  
   
I smiled. I could feel both young men’s rising excitement at the prospect.  
   
“Everywhere but the spare bedroom!” Cas added.  
   
My great-nephew whined in protest, and Cas made sure to keep the two apart as we all went inside. Ah, to be young and in love!


End file.
